And So It Goes
by The Goliath Beetle
Summary: Gakuen AU. Antonio is depressed after Roderich cheats on him, leaving Lovino to pick up the pieces. Meanwhile, Matthew is spending too much time with Gilbert's old bully, Ivan, and Francis has a really bad case of nostalgia. -Spamano, established PruCan, FrUK, and some GerIta. Plus, BTT friendship- Multi-chapter. Warnings: Language, dark themes, adult references.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: HALT, YE READER. **

**Before you begin, you should know that this is not an exclusively Spamano/PruCan/FrUK fic. All three pairings have detailed story-lines, and there will be some chapters with only PruCan, or only FrUK, or only Spamano. If you have a problem with any of these pairings, you may not enjoy this fic. Yes, there is GerIta as well, but it does not have much focus. **

**I just thought I should say that, to avoid any disappointment later. Also, this fic has dark, dark themes. Depression and self-harm, to name a few. **

**Anyway, the title of this story is from the song by Billy Joel with the same name. It has nothing to do with the story itself, unless you read between the lines. I just like the song, and I couldn't think of a better title. **

**Anyway, please enjoy. Also, if you notice any corrections that need to be made with regards to the foreign languages, please let me know. I've used Google Translate, and that's not always accurate.**

* * *

The car pulled up in front of Antonio's house, and the Spaniard wordlessly opened the back door and sat inside, stretching his arms out of the open-roofed vehicle and yawning. "Hola, mi amigos," he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He was wearing a red shirt and a brown jacket, his hair dishevelled and his eyes puffy from not having slept the previous night. He sounded exhausted, too. Though Gilbert and Francis knew this wasn't just physical tiredness, but emotional drain. Antonio had spent the last three days intermittently crying, ranting and lashing out in anger at inanimate objects.

If his friends noticed his less-than-chirpy demeanor, they didn't say anything. Francis began to drive, and Gilbert chatted on about stupid school and how the holidays shouldn't have ended.

"I mean, I could get so much stuff done during the summer break!" the German—er, Prussian, Gilbert liked to be called Prussian (because that was 'awesomer' than German)—cried, flailing his arms around for emphasis.

Antonio let out a dry chuckle. "Gil, all you did during the break was play video games and watch movies."

"And it was awesome!"

"Onhonhon," Francis laughed teasingly, "Think about it this way, at least you'll get to see your precious Mattie, now that he and Alfred are back from their vacation in Hawaii, _oui?_"

Gilbert visibly perked up at this. "Yeah. I haven't seen him for _ages._"

Antonio closed his eyes, falling back into the car seat and tuning out the other two. The last thing he wanted to talk about was relationships, even if it was just Gilbert and Matthew's. He knew he was being selfish, but it was just too damn soon.

Francis noticed this, and elbowed Gilbert—who was talking about planning a date with Matthew after school—to shut up. The albino almost protested, _almost, _until his red eyes widened and he turned his head to look at the Spaniard.

"Er, right. Sorry, Toni. Are you alright?"

"Me?" Antonio asked, "Yes, I'm fine, Gil. Why do you ask?" and then he wore a fake smile, putting all his effort into looking like his usual chirpy self.

Gilbert didn't look convinced.

An awkward silence descended in the car, until Francis cleared his throat and muttered, "I hope the drama club auditions go well. We need new members." Francis, as the head of the drama club, was in charge of spreading the word about auditions. They would probably be held at the end of the week, if Lili and Elizabeta spread the word properly.

The discussion of clubs seemed to make the tension calm down. Antonio yawned once more, and Gilbert glanced out of the window. The peace didn't last long. The Spaniard, in one of his rarely shown but terrifying displays of aggression, muttered, "They'll have to have auditions for the music club as well, because I am fucking _done._" He clenched his fists.

Gilbert swallowed. "Yeah, good for you, Toni. Let that bastard Roderich deal with it."

Once more, an uncomfortable chill fell upon the inhabitants of the car. If ever this happened—and for the Bad Touch Trio, cold, deadly silences were rare—Antonio would cheerfully say something silly, and the other two would collapse into laughter. But that wasn't going to happen any time soon. In fact, both Gilbert and Francis were a little worried for the Spaniard. He hadn't been…very pleasant…for the last few days. But then, who could blame him?

Antonio and Roderich had been in a relationship for practically all of last year. It had been Antonio's first serious romance, apart from the casual flings and one-night-stands that the trio were famous for. And then, the Austrian had gone and cheated on him with Elizabeta.

Toni had only found out three days ago. And though the Spaniard tried, really _tried, _to maintain his usual cheerful persona, pretending to be happy exhausted him. Even the smallest fake smiles would give rise to bouts of irritation or tears. Hell, he'd been practically inconsolable when he first discovered he'd been cheated on.

He wasn't sure he could face the first day of school.

As though on cue, Francis's car entered the school parking lot, stopping at their usual spot. The three members of the Bad Touch Trio got out, and Gilbert resumed complaining about school starting so early. The Frenchman laughed, and even Antonio managed a small grin.

As they entered the school building, Gilbert spotted Matthew by the lockers. He was glancing through what looked like his schedule, and when the former approached, the Canadian turned a slight shade of pink.

"Gil!"

"Birdie!" the albino cheered, bounding up to his boyfriend and pulling him into a hug. The couple stole a quick kiss—Matthew was famously shy of public displays of affection—before breaking apart. Gilbert still held the Canadians hand. Antonio looked away, suppressing a sigh.

"Hi, Antonio, Francis," Matthew said, giving them one of his soft smiles. "How was your summer break?"

"Oh, it was _fantastique, mon cher. _How was Hawaii?"

"Hot," the Canadian answered, not missing a beat. He tugged at the edge of his sleeves and added, "Not my kind of weather."

Gilbert snickered. "It's okay, Mattie. At least you had fun, right?"

"Oh, sure," the Canadian replied, nodding his head. "Alfred especially. Mom was going crazy trying to keep him in check." While the two of them were not related by blood, the brothers looked very similar. Matthew had been adopted by Alfred's mother when the boys were only toddlers. They were the same age, with Matthew only being a few months younger than his American sibling.

Antonio's eyes wandered across the corridor. The World Academy W was always packed to the brim with students of all cultures and nationalities. It was a prestigious institution, and being a student here was a big deal. Above the general buzz of talking and laughter, the Spaniard spotted Elizabeta and Lili already putting up posters for the drama club auditions.

He lowered his eyes and said, "I should probably go check my schedule. See what my classes are like this year."

"What's the rush?" Gilbert asked. "We only just got here. Wait a couple of minutes. Let me see where Feli and Ludwig have gone off too, and then—"

Antonio shook his head. "Nah. I'll go get my schedule. Meet you guys here?"

Francis and Glibert discreetly exchanged glances. The Spaniard had such a crestfallen look about him, that the two just mutely nodded. "We'll be here, _mon ami._"

"I'll get your schedules for you as well," Antonio promised before turning on the balls of his feet and stalking off.

Matthew blinked. "Is he…is he alright?"

Both Gilbert and Francis shook his head.

"Roderich was cheating on him. He found out recently."

"Oh! That's terrible!"

"_Oui, et il est très triste,"_ Francis added, shaking his head. "He's very sad."

"With whom, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Elizabeta."

Matthew frowned. "That's awful. Poor Antonio. Will he be alright? I thought he and Roderich were perfect together!"

"Quite frankly," Gilbert muttered, "I never liked that stupid pianist. I have no idea what Toni saw in him. But yeah, Birdie, I'm sure he'll be fine."

"_Oui, _it's just a bit of heartbreak. We must all go through some pain before finding the one we truly love, _non?"_

Gilbert put an arm around Matthew. "Sure, Francis. Whatever."

* * *

**A/N: In French,** _"Il est __très triste"_ **means** _"he is very_ sad"**. I'm sorry there was no Spamano in this chapter. That will start soon, I promise. I chose Austria/Spain as the pairing where Roderich cheats on Antonio because of the whole Habsburg thing, and because Roderich cheating on Toni with Elizabeta just makes more sense in my head, than just making up some pairing out of the blue.**

**Thank you for reading. Please review! **


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you for your reviews. Here's the next update! :) **

* * *

The day just dragged on. Antonio's first class was English, and he spent his time taking copious notes. Usually, he wasn't such a good student. Sure, he did well, but he wasn't the type to really pay attention in class. But he just had to get his mind off things. Roderich was sitting only two seats ahead of him, with Elizabeta seated not too far away. The sight of them stealing glances at each other made the Spaniard want to cry or scream or both.

Before Roderich, Antonio was perfectly content with just one-night-stands and casual affairs. Why, his fling with the cute Belgian, Bella, came to mind. Both of them knew that it wasn't serious, and it was fun while it lasted. (Sure, her brother hated him after that, but Antonio didn't mind much. He wasn't trying to make any enemies. Really.) But Roderich…he was different. It had always been special between them.

He frowned, pressing his pencil into his notebook so hard that the sharpened tip snapped. This was—this was just—! Antonio scrunched his eyes shut, willing his temper to settle. He took several deep breaths, because, _dios mío,_ it would be _mortifying_ to cry in the middle of class. In front of _those two_, no less.

"Antonio? Are you alright?" Matthew whispered. He was sitting to the Spaniard's right, and had been witness to his momentary onset of rage.

The Spaniard's eyes opened and he shot the Canadian a half-hearted smile. "Of course, mi amigo. Why do you ask?"

Matthew turned beetroot and shrugged. "Just wondering," he said, his voice so soft that Antonio barely even heard him.

In response, Antonio smiled just a bit more before turning to his notebook and broken pencil. He didn't bother to pay attention to the teacher after that.

* * *

Ludwig had realised this over the summer. And it came as a bit of an epiphany. But not seeing Feliciano for several weeks because the Vargas twins and their grandfather had gone to Italy for the holidays…it made Ludwig slightly crazy.

For one, the only person he could really think of was Feli. At first it was just stuff like, _Feliciano is so annoying, _and, _finally, I'll have some peace and quiet until he gets back. _But later, that began to graduate to, _I think I'm hungry for some pasta, _or, _I think Feliciano would like this movie. _It was only after weeks and weeks of these interrupting thoughts that it finally occurred to Ludwig…

That he kind of, sort of, had a crush on the younger Italian twin.

Which came as a bit of a shock, because the German had been very sure that a) Feliciano was an annoying little snot, and b) Ludwig wasn't interested in romantic relationships, at least, not at this age.

So when he and Feliciano had math together, Ludwig couldn't help but glance at the Italian. Feli was fast asleep on his desk, not even bothering to be discreet about it. The German almost smiled. But this was just so much like Feli. _Honestly._ The blonde was trying to study the brunette, trying to figure out if he _really _liked him, or if that was just summer loneliness talking.

Ludwig still wasn't sure. Well, he did feel a lot happier whenever Feliciano was around, but that was a normal feeling between friends. Ludwig had never really had 'crushes' before, and he wasn't about to approach his brother to get more insight. Gilbert would probably die laughing and then tease him with 'LUDDY HAS A CRUSH' for the next five lifetimes.

Exhaling softly, the German turned back to the question on the blackboard, and then to his notebook. He focused on the math, trying to work out the formula and quickly calculate the answer inside his head. The professor kept talking, explaining the concept behind the sum, and this time, Ludwig threw his full effort into listening. He was not an ace student for nothing, after all.

* * *

History was better. They were studying the rise of the Spanish Empire, and Antonio didn't have to try very hard to pay attention. Besides, Roderich and Elizabeta were in different classes. The only irritating person he had to worry about right now was Arthur, but the Brit was a minor nuisance. And Francis and Glibert both shared the class with him.

The Bad Touch Trio was sitting in the last row. Gilbert was playing Angry Birds on his phone, Francis was somehow talking notes and flipping through a dirty magazine (hidden under the desk) at the same time, and only Antonio was fully listening to anything being said in class. He felt lighter than he had in several days. Things felt…almost normal.

Antonio even answered a couple of questions in class, Gilbert snorted and whispered, "Nerd," and the Spaniard cracked a grin.

Yes, normal.

* * *

The bubble burst in music.

Antonio had been dreading this class _all day. _It was the last before lunch, and that asshole Roderich would be right there, sitting and talking and turning up his nose like a freaking aristocrat, playing his—_absolutely, magically beautiful—_piano music and wowing everyone with his talent.

And sure enough, there he was.

Antonio tried to avoid eye-contact, but failed. Green met violet, and the Spaniard felt like his head was going to explode. At once, a torrent of emotion welled up inside him, and for one moment, Antonio felt torn between punching the bastard and begging for his love.

Roderich's lips turned to a straight line and he looked away.

The moment passed.

This music room was where they'd first become friends. At first, neither had believed they had anything in common. In fact, Antonio hadn't even given the good-looking Austrian a second glance, and vice-versa. That changed when they started to play music.

Roderich's prodigal talents with the piano, and Antonio's easy-going but powerful ability to strum his emotions into a guitar, meant that by the end of the forty-five minute class, they'd made eye-contact about twenty times. As they were leaving, the Austrian had given the Spaniard a curt nod.

And that was how, slowly, their relationship had developed. It started out with sitting next to each other in music to sitting next to each other in their other classes, to discussing and exchanging CDs in the corridors. Antonio had asked him out in the third week, and while the Austrian was always soft-spoken and formal, he always seemed a little more relaxed around the green-eyed man. Roderich had said yes, and things only got better from there.

Really, Antonio couldn't figure out what went wrong. Sure, they ended up having a lot of fights towards the last few months of their relationship. Their differences—for they had many, many differences—and unresolved tensions began to make their presence felt. But they always made up with each other. It hadn't gotten _that bad, _right?

And then, after another fight with the Edelstein, Antonio had gone to his house to smoothen things over. Only to find Elizabeta there instead, right in the middle of a heated make-out session with the Austrian on his couch. Then, slowly, the truth started to come out. She and Roderich had been going out behind Antonio's back for a while. Almost immediately as things started getting rough between the Spaniard and the Austrian.

Antonio shuddered at the memory.

He didn't play his guitar very well that day. And even Roderich's piano sounded a bit off.

When the bell signalling the end of the class rang, Antonio was the first to shoot up and exit the room.

* * *

**A/N: I know, I know. You're wondering where Lovino is. He'll show up in the next chapter, I promise. This IS a Spamano, after all. Until then, thanks for reading. Please review! **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you for your reviews! This is chapter three. And yup, the Spamano starts here. :3 Along with the PruCan arc. **

* * *

Lovino usually sat alone. And no, he didn't give two flying fucks about it. Unlike his pathetically needy brother, Lovino like his isolation, thank you very much. As usual, the older Vargas twin took a plate of pasta from the food selection and sat at the corner table near the dustbin. Everybody usually let him be. Sometimes, Feli would bound up to him, sit down and try to make conversation, and Lovino would yell at him to go away.

But that clearly wasn't happening today. Feliciano was too wrapped up with his newspaper club buddies, the Potato Bastard and the Sushi Bastard. They sat all the way across the room, and Lovino couldn't get a clear view of them. Dammit. He didn't trust that German jerk for even a second. He liked to make sure his idiot brother was okay.

From here, however, he could see those assholes of the so-called 'Bad Touch Trio' sitting at their usual table. The three of them, usually the loudest and the most obnoxious in the whole cafeteria, were being remarkably sedate today. Mostly because the Spanish idiot wasn't laughing.

Heh. Whatever. He couldn't stand those three anyway. He was sure they'd be the first to end up in jail. They were always getting into trouble. Hell, they blew up a toilet last year and called it a 'scientific experiment'.

As Lovino angrily stabbed his penne with a fork, he glanced around the rest of the room. The American Bastard was sitting with the English Bastard and laughing about something as the stupid scone-eater scowled. Those kids from Scandinavia—everyone just called them 'The Nordics', sat quietly at their table, with the exception of that guy from Denmark, who was giggling about something. There were other brats littered across the room, but by then, Lovino had lost interest.

He did raise an eyebrow when he saw the usually demure Canadian sitting next to the crazy Russian murderer guy, Ivan. Frankly, Lovino was convinced that bastard had a closet full of corpses or something. He was deranged. Seriously.

So what the fuck was quiet, likable Matthew doing with him? Lovino didn't know the Canadian really well, but they spoke occasionally. Nobody ever seemed to notice the kid. And Lovino understood what _that _felt like.

The Italian ate the last of his penne, got rid of his plate and left the cafeteria. Whatever. He couldn't stand it in there anyway.

* * *

Antonio had nothing on his plate but churros. And the look he gave Francis just _dared _the blonde to say anything about eating healthy. After that disastrous music session, the only thing the Spaniard wanted was his favourite sweet. That was all.

Wisely, the Frenchman averted his eyes, cheerfully saying, "So, how is everyone's day going?"

"Boooooring," Gilbert replied, rolling his eyes. He jerked his head about, and then added, "Have you guys seen Mattie?"

"Is that him? With Ivan?" Antonio pointed.

"What? Can't be. You must be mistaking him for Alfred." The American and the Russian never really got along, and it wasn't uncommon for them to be found in glaring matches. Gilbert turned to where Antonio was pointing.

People avoided Ivan. There were all sorts of terrible rumours surrounding him. Some said he was connected to the Russian mafia, others said he had a thing for torturing people. There were even some stories saying the kid had some sort of incest thing going on with his sister. Ivan was large and terrifying, so everybody just left him alone.

Therefore, it made no sense that Mattie, shy, ignored Mattie, would be sitting at his table during lunch.

"_Mein Gott_, what's he doing there?" Gilbert gasped, tensing up. His expression suddenly darkened. "I swear, if that Ivan is bullying mein Birdie, I'll—"

"Matthieu seems to be happy," Francis noted, watching the Canadian smile at the Russian. Even as the trio looked, Matthew pulled out some papers from his bag and handed them to Ivan.

"Calm down, mi amigo," Antonio said, mustering one of his smiles with superhuman effort. "It seems to me that Ivan just wants to have a look at Matthew's notes."

Gilbert turned back to face his friends, a deep-set scowl on his face. "If Ivan tries anything…" he grumbled before letting his voice trail away.

Antonio patted his shoulder. "Matthew will be fine, Gilly. He has not just Alfred, but _you _looking after him." Flashing Gilbert a grin, he added, "Fusososososo, cheer up!"

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "That's rich, coming from you. How did your music class go?"

And Antonio's fake smile crashed. He even pushed his untouched plate of churros away, muttering, "I don't think it went well. At all. Do you think I should transfer out of music?"

"_Non_!" Francis suddenly shouted. In fact, his voice was so loud and startling that people from nearby tables turned to gape. Gilbert was looking at Francis like the Frenchman had lost it, while Antonio gave his friend a blank stare.

"Why not?" the Spaniard finally asked.

Lowering his voice, Francis replied, "You want to make Roderich think he has defeated you, Toni? You love music, _non?" _When Antonio nodded, the blonde continued, "Well, then why quit it? You go up there and you show him that you don't care about him."

"I'm with Franny on this one," Gilbert supplied, crossing his arms in finality. Francis copied him. The self-declared Prussian added, "You back out of music now, and that bastard Roddy's going to think he beat ya. Don't let him think that!"

"So…" Antonio mumbled, "So I should just go in there and act suave?"

At this, both Francis and Gilbert snorted.

"Sorry, _mein Freund_, but not even on your best day could you act suave!"

"_Oui, _I agree with Gilbert."

Antonio quirked his lips upwards. "Hehe…that's true, isn't it?" He paused. "Alright. Yeah. I'll stick with music. You guys have a point."

* * *

Antonio's next class was Chemistry, which he was terrible at. Last year, he managed to blow up a toilet cubicle. (Well, it was Gilbert's idea. And Francis helped.) The Spaniard was part dreading and part excited about this class. It was always funny when he did something wrong and the whole room filled up with blue smoke or something.

At the same time, he almost always failed this stupid class. He didn't even know how he managed to scrape by last year.

There were little lab desks with chemicals and all sorts of strange glass apparatus. And there was a list on the soft-board in the class, directing who everybody's lab partner would be. (Last year, ironically, Antonio's lab partner had been Elizabeta. And they'd been _friends._) The Hungarian was paired with Feliks, this time.

Antonio looked at the list. His partner was Lovino Vargas. The older Vargas twin? The cute badmouth? As far as the Spaniard knew, he never really got along with _anybody. _His eyes darted towards where the Italian was sitting. It was at a lab desk overlooking the class window.

"Hola," Antonio chirped as he sat beside the Italian. "We're lab partners, _si_? I'm Antonio, by the way."

Lovino Vargas had been glaring resolutely at his chemistry book. When Antonio sat down beside him, the Italian's scowl had deepened. "Yeah, I know we're partners, bastard. I'm not happy about it either, so you can just suck it up and deal with it."

"I never said I wasn't happy about it, Lovi," the Spaniard said, giving him a weak smile.

"_What _did you call me?"

"Lovi."

"Fucking—_don't _call me that, bastard."

"Why not, Lovi?"

"I'll fucking kill—" Lovino's threat died in his throat as the teacher walked into class. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he grumbled as he crossed his arms and settled deeper into the chair.

* * *

**A/N: I hope Lovino didn't seem OOC. And about Gilbert being protective of Canada...I actually like Badass!Canada, but I also think that Gilbert and Alfred would try and look after him, because he just seems so shy and quiet and _protectable._ That's not even an actual word, but whatever. **

**Thanks for reading! Please leave a review? :3 **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you for your reviews! **

**Lili: Yeah, I've written down almost 10 chapters, so I'm updating it every day :) No jealous!Antonio in this fic, but there's jealous!Lovino. Is that okay? :3 Let me try to add some jealous!Antonio in, though. Even I like that.**

* * *

That was it. Antonio was failing Chemistry.

Not even ten minutes into the class, and the Spaniard was completely, utterly confused. He had all but given up taking notes, because that was just distracting him from _listening. _He would glance at his book, then at the teacher, then at the book, before sighing and flipping a page, just to look intellectual.

His lab partner, on the other hand, didn't even seem interested. Lovino was sitting with his head on the table, absently doodling at the corner of his notebook. The Italian was quite the artist, Antonio noted from the hastily drawn yet distinctly familiar shape of swords and axes.

"Hey, Lovi, you draw quite well."

Antonio didn't know why he said it aloud. Sure, if he were in his usual cheerful mood, he would have wanted to make conversation. But the Spaniard wasn't actually feeling chatty. He just wanted to survive the day, go home, and sulk. Maybe he'd call Francis over and they could play some video games or something. (He knew Gilbert would be going on that date with Matthew).

Still, something about Lovino…perhaps it was that frown on his face, or the complex yet seemingly permanent turmoil within his shimmering golden eyes, made Antonio want to cheer him up. Somehow. He didn't even know why.

"Shut up, bastardo," the Italian snapped without even looking at him. "I wasn't asking for your fucking compliments."

"I know," Antonio replied, offering a smile that was surprisingly genuine. It wasn't one of his usual face-splitting grins. This smile was soft and tired, filled with relief and gentle camaraderie. "I just felt like paying you a compliment. Is that so bad?"

Lovino blinked at him. "You're fucking weird," the Italian declared flatly, turning back to his doodles.

"Why is it weird to compliment you, Lovi?"

"Don't fucking call me that, I'll rip your damn head off."

"What should I call you, then?"

"Nothing. Don't talk to me."

"But we're lab partners."

"Tough."

That was when the teacher cleared his throat, narrowed his eyes and snapped, "Mr. Vargas! If you can please _pay attention _in class, that would be lovely."

Lovino started, his eyes widening momentarily as he sat up in his chair. "I _am _paying attention, dammit!"

"Language, Mr. Vargas," the teacher reprimanded, in a tired, defeated sort of way that implied that this was a common exchange between the two. "If you were listening, tell me what the catalyst for this experiment would be." And with that, he pointed to some scribbling on the blackboard that could have been anything from an English food recipe to nuclear launch codes.

Lovino barely even glanced at the markings on the board before muttering an off-hand, "Magnesium."

Antonio's head jerked towards the Italian, his green eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. But…Lovino _hadn't _been listening! He'd been doodling! How…? Well, maybe he was just good at the subject. Which was, in Antonio's opinion, a great achievement.

The teacher's lips became thin. "Very well." With the briefest of pauses, he continued, "Now, class, as I was saying…"

Antonio tuned out again.

Turning to Lovino, who had settled down to doodle once again, Antonio said, "That was really cool, Lovi. I'm terrible at Chemistry."

"Boo hoo," the Italian muttered. His deadpan eyes meeting Antonio's for a brief moment, he added, "_Mio dio_, when does this stupid class end?"

"Twenty more minutes."

"Fuck. I don't think I can handle sitting next to you for even one more second."

Just as Antonio was about to respond, he felt a vibration in his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. Holding it under the desk, he opened the message. It was a text from Gilbert. He read it twice, surprised and a little touched.

**Tooni u doin ok? Sry abt lunch man, didn't mean 2 get so distracted with mattie. U didn't eat, did u? nt even ur churros.**

Antonio bit back a small smile. What would he do without his friends, really? It was a small gesture of concern, but that wasn't the point. Antonio didn't have an appetite, that was true, but it still made him happy that Gilbert noticed. As quickly and as stealthily as he could, the Spaniard punched in an answer.

**I'm fine, Gil! ** **In chem now. It's a bore, but my lab partner keeps things interesting :P I'll eat afterwards. I'm not gonna starve myself for RODERICH EDELSTEIN. Bleh**

It was only after a few minutes that Gilbert's next message came in.

**Who's ur lab partner?**

Antonio glanced at the Italian next to him, a small grin on his features. Something about his constant need to cuss was actually funny, and when Lovino turned to him, snapping, "What the fuck do you want now?" Antonio had to work to bite down a snicker.

Shaking his head, he turned back to his phone and typed:

**Lovino Vargas**

Gilbert replied almost instantly: **Ouch..good luck. Feli's cute, idk what's the deal with that Lovino guy**

Antonio knew Feliciano, but not very well. Feli got on with everyone, and Antonio found him absolutely adorable. Gilbert's reaction to Lovino, however, was completely natural. Nobody really hung around with the older Vargas, and Antonio could never fathom why. Well, sure, he liked to swear. And he was rude, of course. But _still. _

Glancing at his lab partner, Antonio pocketed his phone. He was running out of minutes, fast. (All of those furious, ranting text messages to his friends about Roderich had sucked him dry!) Lovino was now doodling what looked like a plate of spaghetti onto a small corner of his notebook.

"Do you have any idea what he's talking about?" Antonio asked, jerking his head towards the teacher. "I don't get a word of it."

"Maybe you would if you weren't fucking texting."

"Awh, come on, Lovi. Help me out."

"No. Shut up."

"Pleeease, Lovi?"

"Stop calling me that, dammit!"

"LOVINO VARGAS!" the teacher shouted, marching up to their table. Of course, the teacher had heard the Italian shout and cuss in the same sentence now. Antonio watched in as his partner stiffened, a scowl setting into his features.

"Well," the Italian snapped, "At least someone calls me by my goddamn name!"

_Wow, _Antonio thought. _Not even Gilbert would sass a teacher like that._

The professor narrowed his eyes. "Vargas. Detention."

"Please, it was my fault too!" the Spaniard suddenly interrupted. "I was talking, and—"

"Fine. If you're so keen, Carriedo, you can go to detention as well."

The Italian was gaping at Antonio with unabashed shock. Somewhere in the back of the class, Feliks snickered.

Lovino, meanwhile, looked like he could punch Antonio. As the class settled down once more, the Italian growled in an undertone, "This is your fucking fault."

Swallowing, the Spaniard gave the Italian his most charming smile. "Not to worry, Lovi. I promise we'll have fun in detention."

"Don't call me Lovi!"

"But…but it's such a cute nickname."

"Fuck you. Bastard."

* * *

**A/N: I've always found it funny when Lovino cusses. Is that weird? xD Thanks for reading. Please review! **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Happy reading! :D The FrUK arc starts here. Continues with Spamano as well. By the way, I never mentioned this, but in my head, all of the characters are 18/17 years old.**

* * *

It was like that stupid Spaniard was following him! Dammit, was he being stalked? By a member of that infamous Bad Touch Trio, no less? Fuck them, fuck them all. Lovino was going to punch that Spanish bastard if he even tried to talk—

"Lovi, I didn't know we had so many classes together! Are you in math as well?"

The bastard was peering at his schedule and then looming over Lovino to take a look at his timetable too. The Italian was just trying to mind his own damn business, walking down the corridor to find the next classroom. Why couldn't he just be left alone!? First, the asshole had managed to get him into detention. And now he was just hanging around, being a pest.

Lovino internally groaned, his fingers tightening around the timetable in his hands. The thought of his grandfather finding out about the detention. On the first day of school, too. He could just imagine the old man's reproachful gaze. _Why can't you be more like your brother, Lovino? He would never shout profanities in class! _Lovino glared at the annoying Spaniard.

"Can you please just get lost?" the Italian snapped.

"But we have math together," Antonio replied, blinking as though he couldn't understand a word coming out of Lovino's mouth. "_And _art, after that. Speaking of art, do you think you could show me how to draw like that? You're really good, and I sort of suck." He chuckled softly, running a hand through his tousled brown hair.

"No. Fuck off." And Lovino tried to dramatically walk away.

The effect was somewhat ruined by the bastard jogging alongside him, whining, "Oh, come on, Lovi! Pleeeeeeeeeeaaaaseeee?"

"You've already got me into trouble today!"

"Yeah, but we're in detention together!"

"Don't remind me, you fucking asshat."

"You can be really creative with the swearing, I must say, Lovi."

"Shut up."

So, Lovino almost jumped with joy when one of the bastard's stupid friends accosted him in the hallway and dragged him off, leaving the Italian in peace.

* * *

"Francis?" Antonio almost squeaked as the Frenchman mushroomed out of nowhere and grabbed Antonio by the elbow. "What are you—_¿Qué?_" At the best of times, the blonde's grip was tighter than stone, a far cry from his usual sexual groping.

"Come with me," the Frenchman hissed, pulling him away from Lovino without even acknowledging the Italian's presence.

"Wait, what—But—Lovi—" his green eyes followed the Italian as he marched away, his hands to his sides, his fists balled.

Antonio let Francis drag him off. The blonde seemed tense, his blue eyes stiff and serious. There was swift determination in his stride as the two of them turned around the corridor. Francis pushed Antonio away from the hallway, into an empty classroom. With an intense gaze, he lifted a finger to his lips.

"I'm not having sex with you during school," the Spaniard declared, pouting slightly.

"_Non, mon ami. _That's not what I—wait, why not? I mean, unless we get caught, and we never—"

"Franny?" Antonio gently reminded, "Why did you drag me here?"

"Ah, yes," the Frenchman muttered as he tentatively peered out of the threshold of the classroom door. "Come here. I want you to see something."

Antonio approached, hesitant. Copying his friend, he threw a discreet glance out of the classroom down the corridor. Only a few people were about. Antonio noticed Yao and Kiku talking about something, Heracles yawning…huh. Antonio was tired too. He really should have slept last night instead of staying up watching TV and eating ice cream straight from the tub.

"Look," Francis hissed, bringing the Spaniard back to the present. "That's Arthur!"

Sure enough, Arthur was standing with his hands in his pockets, studying a poster stuck to one of the notice boards in the corridor.

"Yes, it's Arthur." Glancing at Francis worriedly, Antonio added, "Why?"

"He's been looking at that poster for fifteen minutes now!"

"So what? What's that poster saying?"

Francis swallowed. His determined expression crumbled and he looked at Antonio with a creased brow and a slight frown. "That's one of the posters Lili put up. It's for drama club auditions."

"Oh…" Antonio replied, not really understanding where this was going.

"You don't think…" Francis took a deep breath. "What if that stupid Black Sheep of Europe wants to audition, do you? I mean, I heard Alfred saying that Arthur and Yao had another argument,"—since the Englishman and the Chinese teen were both important members of the student council, they had to work together. But they didn't always get along. "What if Arthur left the council? What if he's looking to join the drama club?"

Antonio almost giggled at how high Francis's voice was getting. Nobody hated Arthur more than the Frenchman. They'd been squabbling since day one, always trying to outdo each other. Even Antonio didn't quite like Kirkland, but that was nothing compared to Francis's disdain for him.

Actually, that was not entirely true. Though Francis and Arthur fought constantly, Antonio had _always _believed that it was more out of personal enjoyment than actual dislike. Between them, arguing and snapping was almost ritualistic. They would always try to outdo each other, making Gilbert tease Francis about his 'sexual tension' with the British teen.

"Relax, mi amigo! I don't think drama's really his thing."

"_C'est vrai_. But one can never be sure, _non?_" Francis made a face. "I shudder to think…well, what if he does audition, and he's _good_!? I can't just refuse a good actor because of personal reasons, _non_? Especially since after Toris and Tino left, we need replacements!"

Sometimes, it came as no surprise that Francis was the head of the drama club. With him flipping out over Arthur reading a poster, who wouldn't expect him to be a total drama queen? Antonio snickered, putting his hands on his mouth to cover his laughter.

"What?" Francis complained, crossing his arms in indignation.

"He hasn't even auditioned yet, mi amigo! Don't get so worked up!"

Angrily, Francis harrumphed.

"Ay, I need to go to class. I'm late, and I've already been given detention."

"On the first day of school?" Francis raised an eyebrow.

"_Si_."

"I am so proud of you, Toni."

* * *

"Antonio, thank you for joining us," the professor said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She gave the Spaniard a cold look as her fingers flew to the corners of her glasses.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he chuckled, glancing over to the rest of the class. Lovino watched his smile falter briefly as they fell on that Austrian bastard before looking back up at the teacher again.

Her arms were crossed. "Take a seat."

_HOLY SHIT. _Lovino's eyes widened in surprise and annoyance because the _only free seat _in class was _right next to his. _Sure enough, the Spanish bastard walked over, sat down at the desk beside Lovino and shot him a slight smile.

The Italian glared back. What had he done to deserve this?

As the teacher turned her attention to the blackboard, the Spanish bastard tore a scrap of paper from his notebook and scribbled something onto it. Wordlessly, he passed it to Lovino.

Despite his better judgement, Lovino took the note and read it.

_**So, will you teach me how to draw? You're so good at it! ~ Toni**_

Lovino rolled his eyes and crumpled the note. This was going to be a long fucking day.

* * *

**A/N: C'est vrai: French for **_this is true. _**Well, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.**

**Also, today is my birthday. So…I would really like it if you left a review :3 Please? Thanks!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you for the wishes and the review :D Here's chapter six! **

* * *

Detention was as boring as ever. There were very few people there, because it was the first day, and even the worst of the lot didn't get into trouble on their first day back. Lovino just tried his best to ignore the green-eyed pest. He buried his head in on the desk and feigned sleeping.

It didn't work.

"Lovi…hey, Lovi…you awake?"

The Italian didn't budge.

"Lovi…I'm bored. Talk to me."

Antonio was doing a brilliant job of whisper-chatting, and Lovino was getting sick of it.

"Hey, that's an adorable hair-curl."

Lovino stiffened.

"Hehe, it's defying gravity!"

And then, Antonio reached out to touch it.

Lovino reacted so quickly that he startled himself, throwing his body out of reach and losing his balance. He crashed onto the floor, chair and all. The noise made the teacher jump; he'd been fast asleep before. Antonio gasped, and Lovino just groaned.

"Mr. Vargas," the teacher grumbled. "What happened?"

Antonio was out of his seat in an instant, bending over Lovino and snaking his arm around the Italian's shoulders. "Are you okay, Lovi? Here, let me help you up."

"Fuck off, bastard, I'm fine! And this is your fault, anyway! Get off me!"

"_Lo siento, _I'm so sorry."

"Don't touch my damn hair-curl! Ever!"

"Mr. Vargas," the teacher repeated, marching up to them. "Language, please!"

The next hour passed in relative silence, with Antonio shooting apologetic glances towards the Italian, and Lovino flat-out ignoring him.

* * *

After detention, Antonio switched on his phone. Three messages came through.

**Franny told me u got detention lol **

**Listen im goin out with mattie so u and franny leave without me ok?**

Antonio read Gilbert's messages, before going on to Francis's.

_**Désolé, mon ami**_**! Can't wait for you to finish detention. Mom wants me home asap :( Will you be okay on your own? **

Antonio didn't reply to any of them. He didn't have too many minutes left, and he wanted to get home before he ran out. Looking around, he tried to spot his new friend. The badmouthed Lovino was endearing, in a way. Antonio found him fascinating. Perhaps it was because the Italian tried so hard to push people away. It made Antonio wonder _why. _Anyway, Lovino bolted the second they got out, glaring at Antonio as he did.

Sighing to himself, Antonio commenced the long walk home. He and Roderich used to do this together, staying back in school to play their music before walking home, hand in hand. Roderich would kiss Antonio at the door, before giving one of his adorable shy smiles and waving as they parted.

The memory made Antonio's heart clench.

He tried not to think about it, but the more he forced his feelings away, the more powerfully they returned. Antonio _missed _Roderich. He hated himself for it, because the asshole had gone and cheated on him. But darn it…There was nothing Antonio wanted more than to be pulled into the Austrian's arms. To just stand in his embrace forever.

So, the Spaniard went beetroot when he ran into the Austrian in the parking lot. _Crap. I KNEW I should have taken the front exit, like Lovi did! _

Of course. Roderich had stayed back to practice on the school piano. As always!

Antonio felt his face grow hot as the two of them stood, facing each other. Roderich tried to look away, but Antonio stopped him with a hand on the Austrian's chin. _I am an idiot. Toni, walk away. Toni, don't talk to him. He's a jerk. He's a cruel jerk._

"Roddy…Roderich…"

"What is it?" the Austrian muttered, allowing Antonio's hand to guide his face to meet the Spaniard's.

Antonio's hand fell to his side. "Um…I don't…" and then he sighed.

"If it's an apology you want," Roderich stated, his voice as clear as glass, "Then you will be disappointed. I'm not sorry about what I did, Antonio. We're nothing alike, you and I. We brought out the worst in each other."

_Thud-thud-thud. _Antonio's heart was pounding so fiercely that he thought he was going to throw up.

"But," he cried, his voice desperate, "We were so happy together! Why did you have to go and ruin everything? Didn't you care about my feelings?"

"Happy?" Roderich snorted. "You were, perhaps. And maybe I was, briefly. But…look, don't take this the wrong way, but you're very…overwhelming." Crossing his arms, the Austrian looked coldly towards Antonio. "You love too much, too passionately. You were suffocating me."

_What? _

"Are you…are you fucking kidding me?" Antonio spat. "I gave you all I had. I did everything to make you happy, and you—"

"I don't have the time to sit around and argue with you," the Austrian snapped. "Unlike _you, _I have things to do. So just…leave me alone."

"No, wait!" Antonio cried as Roderich turned to walk away. "You're lying. You were happy! Admit it!" At this point, he _needed _the pianist to say it, he _needed _to feel like that whole relationship had amounted to something. Anything. It couldn't have been a waste. Antonio…Antonio wouldn't _allow _it to be a waste.

"You _really _think I was happy?" Roderich sneered. "I suppose you don't know me as well as you thought you did."

And with that, the Austrian was gone.

* * *

Lovino stalked down the empty school corridors. Stupid Antonio trying to touch his hair curl. Stupid Antonio getting him into trouble all the time. What the hell was that bastardo's problem?! Couldn't he just tell that Lovino didn't want to make friends?

Anyway, why was he so adamant on talking to the Italian anyway? Nobody liked speaking to Lovino. They were all far too preoccupied fawning over his idiot twin. Speaking of which, there better be some pasta at home for Lovino, or he was going to kill Feli. He was starving, dammit!

Just as he was about to step out of the school building, the straps of his satchel snagged on the doorknob, and with a jerk—Lovino wasn't even sure how this happened—his bag emptied out onto the floor.

"For fuck's sake!" he snapped, as he bent to sort it out. It took him several moments to pick up and put everything back, and Lovino had to chase a runaway eraser, before he was finally able to exit the building.

Grumbling to himself, he passed the school gates. Right now, all he needed was a hot plate full of Fettuccine and—

Lovino froze at the sight before him.

It was the Spanish bastard. He was leaning against the wall surrounding the school, his forehead pressed against the bricks, his eyes closed. On the pavement beside him, Lovino noticed his bag. It looked like it had been dropped there, forgotten and deflated. What the _hell _was going on? It looked like the bastardo was going through an episode of depression or something.

Swallowing, Lovino sped up. "Oi, bastard. Bastard, can you hear me? What the fuck is going on with you?"

Antonio didn't move. Not for a full minute. When he did, it was with a start, like he'd just broken out of a trance. He blinked in confusion at the brick wall, and then with excruciating slowness, turned to look at the Italian.

"H-hola, Lovi," he stammered.

And Lovino was going to yell at him for using that annoying nickname, but his breath caught in his throat when he saw the Spanish bastard _crying. _Silent tears slipped down his _smiling_ face. The sight was frightening. Absolutely frightening. Tears didn't look good on Antonio. Sure, Lovino couldn't stand the guy, but the Spaniard was known for his cheerfulness. This was…this was just insane.

"…I'm afraid to ask," Lovino confessed. "But, what happened to you? You seemed totally fine, before."

With fumbling hands, Antonio wiped his eyes. "O-oh, it's nothing. Really silly. Don't worry about it."

Lovino raised an eyebrow. "Want me to call someone for you?" Why was he even being this nice? This wasn't even his goddamn problem.

"Haha," Antonio laughed. Well, it was actually more like a statement. A nervous 'ha ha, full-stop'. Shaking his head, the Spaniard added, "Really, it's nothing. Forget it. You don't have to call anyone." He picked up his bag from the footpath and muttered, "I should go. Thanks for your concern, though. It's been nice to talk to you today." His pace was uneasy, stumbling, but he walked past Lovino, going in the direction opposite to where the Italian was headed.

Lovino watched him go with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was something deeply unnerving about someone who smiled as they cried, about someone who tried to keep a brave face when they were so obviously desperate for help.

The Italian walked home very slowly, thinking this over as his brain took him to the last conversation with the Spaniard.

When Feliciano opened the door for him, it was with a cheerful hug and a chirp of, "Ve, _fratello, _where were you?"

"Get _off _me, Feli," Lovino snapped, pushing his younger brother away. "I was in detention. It was all that Spanish Bastard's fault!"

"Oh, you mean Toni?"

Lovino nodded, but didn't say anything else. He pushed past Feliciano and muttered something about pasta (quite frankly, after seeing Antonio like that, he'd lost his appetite), before he noticed the Potato Bastard sitting at the dining table.

"Why is he here?" Lovino snarled. Ludwig looked up and sighed, and Feliciano turned a shade of pink.

"Lovino and I are studying," the Potato Bastard explained, trying to keep his voice level.

"Ve, _fratello, _I didn't think you'd mind!"

Lovino groaned. "Whatever. Just leave me alone." He marched up the stairs, entered his room, and slammed the door shut.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, I am cruel. But depressed!Antonio is just fascinating. There are so many levels to him, I swear. I just had to do some exploring, you know? That's why I added that episode of depression. It wasn't the original plan of this chapter, but it just sort of...happened. xD **

**Thanks for reading. Please review! **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you for your reviews. Here's the next chapter!**

* * *

_Knock. Knock. Knock. _

"Lovi? Ve, I'm coming in!"

Feliciano entered his room along with the smell of freshly made pasta. Lovino, lying on his bed with an arm over his eyes, slowly sat up. Feli was smiling one of his trademark sweet smiles as he placed the food on the bedside table and crawled under the covers, right next to Lovino.

"What are you doing, idiot?" the older twin snapped.

"Cuddling!"

"No shit. _Why _are you cuddling?" Lovino barked, wriggling away from his brother.

"Because you look sad."

"_Idiota! _I'm not sad."

"Oh," Feli chirped, sitting up and giving Lovino a curious look. "I just thought you were, because you didn't shout at me for half an hour when I invited Luddy over. You usually shout, so I thought something was wrong."

Lovino rolled his eyes and thrust his arms out, motioning for Feliciano to pass the plate of pasta. It was Alfredo and penne, and the older twin ate hungrily. After several silent moments, Lovino swallowed a large mouthful and paused for air.

"How well do you know Antonio?" the older Vargas asked, giving his brother a sidelong look.

"Ve, not very well. But I like him! He's so funny! He's one of Luddy's _fratello's _friends!" Feli smiled at him. "Why?"

Lovino chewed the inside of his cheek. Honestly, he didn't know why he was even bothering. There was nothing to worry about. _I might hate him, but in that state, he's going to get run over by a car or something. _The Spanish bastard had seemed incredibly hazy, very out of it.

"The Potato Bastard's still downstairs, isn't he?"

"_Sì_!"

Lovino leaned his head slightly towards Feliciano and sighed. "Can you do me a favour?"

* * *

Matthew smiled at Gilbert's antics. They were sitting in their favourite café, in the corner booth. It was cosy, comfortable and private. His Ger—um, Prussian boyfriend was flailing his arms in the air, animatedly describing all the things he'd done over the summer. Matthew had missed him like crazy. In several ways, Gilbert was a lot like Alfred, not that either of them would ever agree to that.

"—And so, I proved once again to my poor little brother that I am awesome!"

The Canadian laughed. It reminded him so much of Alfred shouting 'I'm the hero!' in every conversation. The silver-haired man grinned at him before putting an arm around his shoulders.

"So, tell me what Hawaii was like. Any hot girls?"

Matthew blushed. "Well, of course. But you're the only one I could ever—"

"You know what I mean," Gilbert interrupted with a snicker. "Did you surf the waves? See any sharks? Get completely shitfaced?"

"I surfed…I didn't like it, but…yeah…" Matthew finished lamely. "Alfred surfed a lot. He's really good at it. And he was loving the attention he was getting from all the women there."

"I don't care what _Alfred _did, Mattie! Tell me about _you._"

Matthew turned a brilliant shade of magenta. It was always slightly daunting—and yet strangely pleasing—that Gilbert paid so much attention to him. Never in the spotlight, the Canadian couldn't help but feel slightly embarrassed by his boyfriend's constant doting. But that was how they even became friends. They had that in common—being overlooked for a sibling. Gilbert had always gone out of his way to be different from Ludwig, going so far as to call himself 'Prussian' instead of 'German'. In school, he was always loud and brash, always getting into trouble. It was all attention-seeking behavior.

But Matthew knew Gilbert's soft side.

Matthew knew that his tendency to call himself awesome was born from a self-reassurance method. "I'm awesome, I'm awesome, I'm awesome," he would tell himself every time he was feeling neglected. Matthew knew that Gilbert liked small, cute things—especially birds—and that Gilbert's red eyes would always notice him, no matter how invisible the Canadian felt.

They'd become friends when Matthew was assigned to tutor Gilbert in geography last year. It wasn't long before they'd opened up to each other—which was a big deal for the both of them. And strangely enough, it was Matthew who'd asked Gilbert out first, and not the other way around.

Of course, Alfred initially had a problem with it. He didn't trust Gilbert. He was infamous as the loudest and most obnoxious member of that insanely named 'Bad Touch Trio', but eventually, the two of them became friends. (Matthew also suspected that Alfred had fired a couple of death threats towards the Prussian before allowing them to go on their first date.)

"Me?" he mumbled. "Well…it was nice. Very beautiful. Though I thought I was going to get a heatstroke." He smiled as Gilbert lightly chuckled. "I loved the food, though. Especially the Saimin. Saimin's a noodle soup dish with different kinds of meat."

Gilbert nodded at the explanation before saying, "Speaking of food, I missed your pancakes over the summer."

Matthew laughed. "I can make you some later, if you'd like."

"_Ja_, I'd like that very much!"

They sipped their coffee and talked about everything and nothing at all. It was bliss. Conversation was the kind of luxury that wasn't available with Alfred. Usually, it was just his American brother babbling on with Matthew's quiet input going completely unheard. Their mother was a good conversationalist, and the Canadian liked to talk to her. But she'd be really busy now that they were back home. Alfred's father had passed away when the two boys were very young and ever since then, Alfred's mother had raised the two boys all on her own.

"Hey, Birdie," Gilbert suddenly asked, looking serious, "I saw you sitting with Ivan during lunch. He's not bullying you or something, right?"

"You noticed that?" Matthew chuckled, and Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Well, no, Gil. Ivan's a really nice guy. He just wanted to have a look at my notes, that's all."

Gilbert looked momentarily pacified. "Well…okay. I just worry about you. He's crazy."

Matthew didn't reply. He didn't get the chance. Suddenly, Gilbert's phone suddenly burst to life, startling the daylights out of the Prussian.

"It's Ludwig," Gilbert muttered, looking at Matthew meaningfully. "I'm sorry, Birdie. I won't take long."

"It's not a problem, Gil. Don't worry."

He answered the phone. "_Ja,_ what do you want, Luddy?...What?...Wait, the network's terrible. I can't hear you." Putting a hand over his phone, he looked at Matthew and muttered, "I'll take this outside. My phone can't seem to connect properly to his."

"Oh. Alright."

"I won't be a moment." Lightly pecking Matthew on the lips, he stood and walked out of the café.

* * *

"Hello?" Gilbert said, once outside. "I can hear you now. What were you saying?"

"_According to Feli who was told by Lovino—wait, just talk to Feliciano."_

"Okay."

"_Hello? Gilbert? Hi! It's me, Feliciano!"_

"Hi, there. What's going on?"

"_Ve, Gilbert, could you please check on Antonio? Lovino said some stuff and I'm worried." _

Gilbert frowned a little. "What happened?"

"_He said Antonio was going through some sort of…episode? He was crying all over the place and stumbling and—" _despite his quickened heartbeat, Gilbert heard some shouting at the other end of the line, with Lovino Vargas's angry voice screaming something along the lines of, _IDIOTA, GIMME THE DAMN PHONE._

"Hello? What the hell is going on?" Gilbert snapped.

"_Listen, Potato Bastard's brother. Check on your friend, the Spanish Bastard. And ignore what my stupid fratello said, he makes it sound like Antonio was having a fucking panic attack. I don't know what the fuck was going on, and it's not my bloody problem. I found him, he was a mess, and now I've told you. I've done my job. You sort out the rest."_

And the line went dead.

* * *

**A/N: PruCan is SO CUTE. Thanks for reading. Please review!**

**Also, I would appreciate it if you guys could check out my new PruInd friendship-fic (oneshot), called "An Unlikely Friendship". If you do happen to read it, I would love to hear your view. Thanks :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Chapter eight! And the new college year begins tomorrow. So excited :D **

* * *

This was déjà vu.

Antonio didn't realise what had happened until Lovino had broken him out of it. All he remembered was Roderich speaking, saying cruel, hurtful things. And when Antonio was just leaving the school premises, trying to forget…Well, for a moment there, he couldn't remember where he was.

The memories of Roderich came back like a tsunami, and suddenly, Antonio was focusing on every little detail. The slight upward curve of his haughty lips, his nimble fingers, long and delicate. The thick accent to his voice, making him sound almost like royalty. He didn't know when he started leaning against the brick wall, pressing his forehead onto the structure.

All he heard next was Lovino, not the words the Italian had spoken, but the tone of his voice. The rolling Rs, the rugged but somehow delicate accent, the curl of his tongue as he spoke. Antonio didn't realise he'd been crying, but when he looked up to see the Italian, he flashed him an automatic smile. It was a reflex, because generally, Antonio loved smiling. At that point, his grin had been muscle memory.

He couldn't remember the conversation they'd shared, but Antonio had stumbled home, hazy, confused. He got lost twice. And he'd been shaking. Out of fear. Because this had happened before. These episodes, these sudden emotional whirlpools.

Back when he was ten. When his father had walked out on him and his mother. At first, Antonio had been shocked into silence. Then, the episodes began. Just like this one. He'd forget where he was, what he was doing. And he'd just _remember. _And for several minutes after the blank-out had passed, Antonio would be dazed, stumbling everywhere he went. Sure, after a few weeks, everything went back to normal. (They wouldn't have been able to afford therapy, anyway.)

But…why…

Why was it happening again?

Antonio was terrified.

When he finally got home, his mother was still at work. So he just walked up to his room, threw his bag on the floor, kicked his shoes off and collapsed onto the bed. Closing his eyes, the Spaniard did all he could to just go to sleep. He was tired, so tired. But now, he was frightened, too.

_Don't think about it, Toni. That will just make it worse. _

Antonio groaned as he turned, lying on his stomach. His face was stuffed in the pillow. _I hope I just suffocate, _he caught himself thinking. As he drifted off to sleep, a face appeared inside his head. He couldn't focus on the visage itself, but Antonio was sure he recognised a pair of molten gold eyes.

* * *

"_Oui, Gilbert, what do you want?"_

"Franny. Check on Toni. Something's happened." On the other end of the phone line, Gilbert heard the shuffling of papers and a door slamming shut. It was with a clipped, serious tone that the Frenchman replied next.

"_What happened?"_

"Honestly, I have no fucking clue. Got a very confusing call from Luddy…and Feli and Lovino. Apparently, Toni had some sort of weird panic attack or something and seemed really out of it. He was alone. I tried calling him right now, but he isn't picking up."

"_Panic attack? That's not like Antonio. At all."_

"Yeah. That's exactly what I thought. Panic attacks are _your_ thing."

"_I resent that." _

Gilbert chuckled, but the mirth died down after only a few seconds. "Check on him, will you? I don't know, call him or something. I'm with Mattie right now, and I don't want to seem rude and leave early."

The Prussian heard Francis sigh.

"_Yes, okay. I'll call him. You're probably just overreacting." _

"Yeah…probably." Gilbert paused. "_Danke._"

"_À bientôt." _

Gilbert cut the call, pocketed his cell phone and headed back inside the café, a frown on his features.

Matthew noticed. "Is everything alright?" he asked as the silver-haired man took his seat.

Gilbert shrugged. "Antonio drama. I think."

The Canadian's lips turned downwards. "What's wrong? Is Antonio okay?"

Gilbert scratched the back of my head. "I…don't know." Shrugging, he muttered, "I spoke to Francis. He'll call me if something's wrong. But it's Antonio, so I'm not that worried. He's a tough mofo, he's fine. Probably just Feliciano blowing things out of proportion." Gilbert smiled a little. "Honestly, sometimes I think Feli has a crush on Toni."

"Really? Why? I thought they barely knew each other."

"Oh," Gilbert declared, taking a sip of his coffee and making a face when he realised it had gone cold. "Let me tell you, they may not hang out often, but they get along famously. In fact, last year, Feli gave a tomato plant to Antonio for his birthday."

"…Is 'tomato plant' supposed to be a euphemism for something?" Matthew mumbled, turning beetroot and tugging at his sleeves awkwardly.

Gilbert snorted. "No, an actual, _legit _tomato plant. You know how Antonio loves that fruit. And _mein Gott, _Birdie, he wouldn't shut up about it. He named the plant Churro."

"He named…a tomato plant…Churro," Matthew repeated, blinking.

"_Ja._" Gilbert rolled his eyes and snickered. "See what I mean? The guy's a total nutcase. He'll be fine."

* * *

When Antonio woke up, it was dark outside. Somebody—his mother, no doubt—had put a blanket on him, which the Spaniard promptly kicked off as he sat up in bed. Rubbing his face groggily, he yawned. It had been a fairly dreamless sleep, but he was still bone-tired.

Pushing himself off the bed, he switched on a light and began looking for his phone. It was somewhere in his bag, which was now sitting inconspicuously beside the cupboard. He rummaged through it, tossing out books and pencils and a packet of gum.

He found his phone and blinked.

Three missed calls from Gilbert, five from Francis, and at least fifteen text messages.

**Toni answer ur phone**

**Now **

**Toni **

**U ok? **

**Shit call me back when u see this.. im getting worried abt u**

He scanned through all of Gilbert's messages, rubbing residual sleep from his eyes. His 'Prussian' friend had sent at least six or seven texts, and quite frankly, Antonio couldn't fathom why. Even Francis's messages sounded slightly urgent.

**Antoine**—huh, Franny only ever called him that when he was tense about something—**Gilbert said something about you having an attack? What's going on? **

**Antoine, answer my phone calls.**

**I will call your mother.**

**I'm serious! I'll call her! -.- **

**Did you or did you not have a panic attack? What happened? Tell me, you can talk to me!**

Panic attack? What the hell was he—_oh. _That damn episode that he'd had earlier! Shit, how did they even find out about that? Blinking, he licked his dry lips and muttered, "How did I sleep through all these messages and phone calls?"

With a sigh, he dialled Francis's number. The Frenchman picked up at the first ring. Antonio mentally prepared himself for an onslaught of questions. He was ready. He could do this.

* * *

"Antonio!" Francis almost shouted into his phone. "Finally! I've been calling and calling. Do you how worried I've been? What the hell was Gilbert talking about when he said you were having a panic attack? It's not like you! What's going on? You tell me RIGHT NOW."

On the other end, he heard Antonio laughing. _"I go to sleep for a couple of hours and the whole world goes crazy? Is it always like this when I take my siestas?"_

"It's not funny, you idiot," the Frenchman huffed. "You've been really weird lately. Gilbert and I are concerned about you. You didn't eat anything in school today, either. I know you're hurting about Roderich, but this is getting out of hand."

"_For the record, I had a bad day in school. But I'm fine now, okay? Jesús, Francis. I don't know what panic attack Gilbert is talking about."_

"Feliciano told him—"

"_Feli? What did Feli say?"_

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Feliciano told him that you were all alone and having a panic attack. That's all I know."

"_Jesús,"_ the Spaniard muttered once more. _"I wasn't having a panic attack, idiota. I was sleepy, I was yawning, and something caught in my throat." _Chuckling, Antonio added, _"I'm running out of minutes. Tell Gilly I'm okay, to not throw such a bitch fit about anything."_

"Antoine, I—"

"_Franny, I have to go. Madre's calling me for dinner. Adiós!"_

Francis rolled his eyes. "Okay. _À bientôt_."

* * *

Antonio cut the phone. Staring at it blankly for what seemed like several minutes, he let out a deep growl and tossed it onto his bed. _Dios, _he was so angry. And so tired. The last thing he wanted was for his friends to question him, because he felt obliged to wear his cheerful persona (he didn't want to ruin their day as well, did he?), and that just made him want to break something.

He hated them all. Stupid fucking Roderich with his snobby, upper-class attitude and lying smile. He hated Elizabeta, for lusting after his boyfriend and stealing him away. He hated Francis and Gilbert for always being so fucking sympathetic and worried, checking on him all the time. He was _fine. _He didn't need that proud, cheating Austrian in his life. And he was sick and tired of being so miserable.

He was happy, cheerful, lovable Antonio, and he didn't need any of this.

Another surge of rage.

He kicked his schoolbag. It went flying across the room.

Storming out of his room, he slammed the door shut.

* * *

**A/N: _À bientôt _is French for "See you soon/Talk to you soon". _Madre_ is Spanish for "Mother". **

**Thanks for reading! Please review! **

**(Also, please do check out my PruInd Friendship one-shot called 'An Unlikely Friendship'. I would be so honoured! :) ) **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Guys, I would like to say something important. **

**This fic's main pairing is Spamano. However, I have promised to add GerIta, PruCan and FrUK, along with BTT moments. Right? Right. And I know that even though Spamano is the main pairing, other readers might prefer some focus on the other ships as well. So, if ever you feel that I am ignoring any of the other pairings in favour of Spain/Romano, it's because Spain/Romano is the main artery of the story. PruCan, GerIta and FrUK have their own arcs, and will operate with their own plot lines, and will have their own conclusions. However, the fact is, Spamano is the backbone of this fic. For example, without the Spamano arc, the GerIta arc falls on its face. **

**I just thought I'd say this in case any of you awesome readers are concerned with the lack of GerIta/PruCan/FrUK in the fic so far. It's coming. I promise you. But first, I need to establish the Spamano plot-line properly. **

**Thanks! And enough of my blabbering. **

**Enjoy the chapter! :D **

* * *

What sort of idiot would make a schedule that would put chemistry as the first class in the morning? People were still barely awake, but sure, get them to smell toxic fumes. Great idea. Lovino pondered this, internally grumbling as he yawned. Dammit, he was sleepy. Stupid school.

Oh, and sure, that Antonio would just come here and irritate him. Really, why did he have to have such an annoying lab partner? Couldn't it have been someone quiet and intelligent, like Kiku or Matthew or Heracles?

Still, though. The Spanish Bastard's behaviour the previous day had been nothing short of weird. What was he supposed to do when Antonio got here? Should he bring it up? No, that would make things too uncomfortable. Lovino didn't want to get tangled up in whatever emotional bullshit that idiot was going through. Jeez, this was school._ Everyone _was going through something!

Lovino himself was going through an 'I-Hate-Potato Bastard' phase. Wait, no, that wasn't a phase. He'd always hated Ludwig. Always hated how his stupid _fratello _would praise him endlessly and yet not have a single kind word for Lovino. _His own brother. _Just yesterday, after that whole phone call to the Potato Bastard's brother, Feliciano spent the next half an hour gushing about Luddy's-so-nice-for-letting-us-use-his-phone, and Luddy-is-helping-me-with-math-isn't-that-great?

Things would be different if Ludwig actually gave two shits about his brother. But the German was always stoic, downright cold. He would shout at Feli and threaten him and yell at him. To Lovino, it looked like bullying. And his idiot brother was just too _dazzled _by that asshole to even notice. It made Lovino sick.

The teacher walked in just as the bell rang, and that was really when Lovino noticed that Antonio hadn't turned up yet.

"Right, class, settle down. We'll continue from where we left off yesterday, and then I want you all to conduct an experiment yourselves. You all have your lab partners, right?" and his gaze swept across the room, landing heavily on Lovino. "Where's Mr. Carriedo?"

"Hell if I—" Lovino broke off suddenly, remembering the detention from the previous day, and mumbled, "I have no idea."

"Playing truant on the second day," the teacher muttered, rolling his eyes. "Why am I not surprised?" Turning to the blackboard, he added, "I want everyone to take notes while I'm talking, now."

Lovino sighed. What was going on with the Spanish Bastard? Not that he was curious or anything. Actually, it was probably nothing. He must have just overslept.

* * *

Antonio woke up before dawn, ravenous. His mother was already awake, sitting at the dining table with her laptop and a cup of coffee, reviewing her notes for her big meeting. She was a pretty woman, with raven black hair and green eyes. When her son entered the kitchen, she looked up and her features softened.

They spoke in Spanish, the tone of her voice soothing and gentle.

"Good morning, sweetheart. How are you feeling?"

"Tired," he replied, honest. He went to brew himself a cup of coffee. Dinner last night had been extremely awkward. Antonio had been in a terrible mood, and he'd been scared witless because of that episode of depression. He hadn't yet told his mother anything that had happened. Last night, he just couldn't get the words out. Today, though, he knew he had to face it.

"Listen, love," his mother said, running a hand through her hair. "I have to go out of town for a couple of days. For work. In fact, I leave tonight."

He threw her a glance. It was quite normal for his mother to travel for her job, but right now, he simply didn't _want _her to leave. She seemed to be feeling the same.

"Will you be okay on your own? I feel terrible about this, but I couldn't refuse. There's a really important conference I just have to attend."

"I'll be fine, don't worry," he said, giving her a small smile. He could feel her regarding him over her cup of coffee. A thoughtful look passed across her face. It made Antonio want to look away. He felt as though she could read his mind.

"What happened yesterday, Antonio? Are you ready to talk about it now?"

Setting his freshly made cup of coffee on the table, he pulled up a chair and sat. Wringing his hands together, he muttered, "Um…you know when dad left? Um…that."

Her eyes widened. "What are you _saying?_ Did you have one of those blank-outs? Gods mine, Antonio!"

He winced. "I didn't…I can't…um…"

"What triggered it?" she shot, sitting up and looking at him very seriously.

"Roderich and I…had words." And then, slowly, hesitant, he narrated the whole thing. It made him want to _cry. _He spoke and spoke and spoke, coffee left forgotten. The minutes ticked by. He glossed over the exact details of his conversation with his jerk ex-boyfriend, but gave her the general gist of things. Then he jumped to the sudden spell of confusion, before being broken out of his trance by Lovino Vargas. When he was finally done, his mother was looking at him wide-eyed.

"Do you want me to cancel my business trip? Just say the word, Toni. I hate seeing you like this."

"No, no," he quickly replied. His mother had already made too many sacrifices, and he knew how she loved her job. Besides, he didn't want her to worry about him. "I'm fine now, see? I'm just tired, that's all."

She swallowed uncomfortably, but didn't push it. They sat in silence for hours. She was late for work, and Antonio merely texted his friends saying he wasn't going to school today, adding a lie stating that he had to run some errands.

After what felt like ages, Antonio retreated to his room, where he promptly fell into the pillows and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Lunch. Lovino was sitting alone, as usual. Except, this time, Feliciano bounded up to him, set his tray down and yipped, "Did you see Antonio today? Ve, he didn't come! Do you think he's alright?"

"Don't know. Don't care," Lovino replied, barely looking up to see Feli as he spoke. "Leave me alone, will you?"

"It's nice what you did, yesterday. Getting Gilbert to check on him, I mean."

Lovino's golden eyes sharpened as his head snapped up from his food. Swallowing a mouthful of risotto, he muttered, "Whatever."

Feliciano did something with his face. Somehow—and Lovino wasn't sure how—an expression of light _amusement _appeared on his features. His eyes narrowed slightly, his lips curving upwards. "It was kind of you, _fratello_."

The elder Vargas twin felt his face go hot. He _knew _he was blushing, dammit! "Shut up! You make it sound like I fucking threw him out of the way of an oncoming car or something. _Dio, _Feli, just fuck off. Go sit with your Potato Bastard boyfriend."

Feliciano's head cocked to one side. "Ve, _fratello, _he's not my boyfriend."

Slowly, very slowly, Lovino put his fork down. "What."

"He's not my boyfriend!" Laughing, he added, "Luddy and I are just friends! As if we would ever be more than that."

Lovino raised his eyebrows, and after several seconds of just gaping at his brother, he rolled his eyes. "Look, whatever, I don't care. Just leave me alone."

* * *

"Personarry, I have never riked the schoorl's Japanese menu," Kiku complained, poking his chopsticks at his shogayaki. Even though they served all of his favourites, the level of the cooking was never up to Kiku's standards. The young Japanese student sighed as he ate, making Ludwig smile.

"Why don't you try some pasta?" Feliciano chirped from beside the German. "Pasta is always nice."

Kiku gave a sideways look to the Italian but said nothing. Ludwig smiled some more. He was feeling especially upbeat today. Maybe Feli's usual joyful persona was rubbing off on him? So far, the day was going nicely. Especially since he and Feli shared a lot of their classes.

The Italian glanced up as his irritable brother marched into the cafeteria, completely ignoring them as he went to get his lunch.

"Ve…" Feli muttered.

"What's wrong?" Kiku asked.

Ludwig glanced from Lovino to Gilbert, who was sitting with Francis and Alfred's younger brother—whose name always slipped his grasp. Antonio was nowhere to be seen. What _had _happened yesterday? Lovino hadn't told them the whole story, none of the details. All he'd said was that the Spanish student was having some kind of attack or something.

"I need to speak with _mio fratello._" Picking up his tray of food, Feli said, "See you guys later?"

"_Ja_."

"_Hai_."

Ludwig watched him go, a rush of affection taking over him.

Kiku cleared his throat. "What was that about?"

Turning to his friend, the German began narrating the incident from before. He told it exactly as it happened, including the messy phone call with Gilbert. Kiku nodded at all the right places, frowning in concern at Antonio's state of mind.

After that, there was a slight lull in the conversation. Kiku swallowed the last of his meal. "Is that Fericiano's phone?"

Ludwig glanced around, his eyes finally resting on an iPhone on the seat previously vacated by the Italian.

"_Dummkoph. _I'll give it to him."

Ludwig picked it up, approaching the table where the two Vargas twins were sitting. As usual, Lovino looked livid and Feliciano had his silly smile. Except, just as he entered earshot, the two of them began discussing something. Something that caught the German's attention.

"He's not my boyfriend! Luddy and I are just friends! As though we'd ever be more than that."

Ludwig froze, his heart pounding in his chest. His lunch was swirling in his stomach, and for one horrifying second, he thought he might throw up. Swallowing desperately, he thought, _that's fine. It's not like I have romantic feelings for Feliciano anyway. I've just missed him over the summer, because he is my friend. That's all. Friend. _

Shit, shit, what if they saw him, standing right there? Feliciano was backing him, but if Lovino glanced up, he'd notice Ludwig right away. Crap.

His face on fire, he turned on his heels and marched right back to where Kiku was seated, the Italian's iPhone still in his hands. Kiku raised his eyebrow at Ludwig. "You rook red. And you didn't give his phone back to him."

The German placed the phone on the table. "He and Lovino were having a…a personal discussion. I'll return it to him later."

Kiku gave Ludwig a suspicious frown, but said nothing.

The German wanted to melt into the floor and disappear.

* * *

**A/N: See? Here's some GerIta to offset all of that Spamano. I hope you liked it. Please review! **


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Ten chapters! Yay! Lots of BTT feels in this chapter :3 **

* * *

When Antonio answered the doorbell, he was met with an equally dejected looking Gilbert and Francis. They wordlessly pushed past him, dropping their school bags on the floor, flopping on his couch and kicking off their shoes before putting their feet up on the coffee table. Antonio closed the door after them and sat down next to the Frenchman, curling up his feet under him and sitting Indian-style on the couch.

Finally, Francis muttered, "We should just change our name from Bad Touch Trio to Bad Day Trio."

"Bad Touch Trio always sounded lame, anyway," Gilbert replied, giving the Frenchman a sideways look. "Trust _you _to come up with something like that."

Francis didn't reply, but rolled his eyes. Antonio said, "Bad Day Trio sounds even lamer."

"Something's going on with Mattie," Gilbert sighed, running a hand through his hair. "He keeps hanging out with Ivan."

"Today too, huh?" the Spaniard asked.

"Oh yeah. They sat next to each other in class and everything. I don't know, man. He's keeping something from me."

Antonio reached over and slapped Gilbert at the back of his head. "No, Gilly! Don't think like that. You'll drive yourself crazy. Mattie won't cheat on you."

"Ow! And I never said he was _cheating _on me," Gilbert cried, blinking at Antonio. The Spaniard looked wide-eyed before falling back against the couch.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm not thinking straight."

"No, it's alright," Gilbert answered.

"But all of that is trivial," Francis almost shouted, throwing his hands up dramatically. Jumping to his feet, he began to desperately pace across the living room, looking more and more harried with every passing second. His blonde hair was falling out of its usual ponytail as he cried, "I have information from a reliable source which has led me to believe that _Arthur Scone-Eating Kirkland will be auditioning for the drama club!_"

"OH NO!" Gilbert shouted.

"THE HORROR!" Antonio shrieked, as both he and the Prussian launched their bodies up and swung their arms about with as much melodramatic, sarcastic flair as they could muster.

Francis sniffed in disdain. "Fuck yourselves."

"Oh, quit lyin' to us," Gilbert snickered. "You're secretly _glad _that Sherlock Holmes is auditioning. Aren'tcha?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Antonio repeated, giggling.

"James Bond," Gilbert said, mouthing off the next English fictional icon that he knew.

"Mr. Darcy!" Antonio cried, "He's romantic, right?"

"No, he isn't. You uncultured swine," Francis snapped.

"How would _you _know that, though?" Gilbert asked, waggling his eyebrows. "Reading English literature in your free time?"

Francis roared something in French at the accusation, pulling out one of his socks and rolling them into a ball. With perfect aim, the Frenchman threw the offending garment at Gilbert's face. It hit the Prussian in the nose, and Gilbert cussed.

"Your feet stink," he muttered.

"They do _not. _And I'm not lying!" Francis added, crossing his arms. When his two best friends just sat there _grinning _at him, the blonde knew he had to change the subject. "_I _am not lying. Antonio, however, is."

The sentence suddenly made the temperature in the room plummet. Both Francis and Gilbert were looking at the Spaniard with deadpan, no-nonsense expressions that made Antonio visibly squirm. The tanned boy lowered his eyes and muttered, "Oh, come on, guys."

"Why didn't you come to school today?" Gilbert asked, his tone leaving no room for argument. "That's actually why we came here. To talk to you. Something's up, Toni."

"I told you!" Antonio cried. "Nothing's up. Mom asked me to run some errands."

"That's bullshit," the albino snapped.

"You _are _lying," Francis muttered, glaring at his friend. It was an accusation of the highest order in the Bad Touch Trio. If something serious was going on, one simply _did not _lie. They'd been best friends since before they could even talk. They knew everything about each other, every dark quality, every embarrassing secret. Being dishonest was a breach of trust, a grave one.

This realisation seemed to dawn on Antonio, whose face crumpled. He changed his sitting position, propping his head on his bent knees. "I just didn't feel like going, okay? That's it. Really."

"Antoine," Francis warned.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"_Verdammt, _we don't care. You're going to fucking tell us. Do you know how worried we were? Feliciano telling me that you're having some kind of attack?"

Antonio lifted his head slightly at Feli's name. So that's how they found out, huh? Lovino must have told him. And Feli was friends with Ludwig, Gilbert's brother.

"Fine," Antonio said, his voice deadly quiet. And then he told them. He told them exactly what happened, right up to where Lovino found him. And then he told them how he stumbled home, dazed, scared, lonely. "That's why…that's why I just didn't feel like coming. Okay? Now you know. So just…just shut up. I don't want to hear your pity."

It wasn't _fair. _Antonio hated pity. Sure, concern was great. Concern showed that his friends cared for him. But he liked to be the person who was taking care of other people. He loved bringing smiles to their faces, and he hated to be the cause of Francis and Gilbert's combined looks of shock.

Antonio groaned. "Don't look at me like that. Please." He buried his head in his knees as his eyes suddenly burned. Fuck, he couldn't let himself cry_. _That would just make everything a hundred times worse.

Nobody said anything, but Antonio felt the couch sag slightly as Francis sat down next to him, sandwiching the Spaniard between his two best friends. The Frenchman pulled Antonio's head onto his lap as the brunet burst into tears. Gilbert got to his feet and neared Antonio's head, running his fingers through his hair the way he _knew _Antonio liked it.

And Francis was singing. It was in French, a soft, barely-audible lullaby. But it was enough.

"I'm not crying for Roderich," Antonio mustered, his voice thick with tears.

"We know that, Toni," Francis replied.

"I'm just…" _Terrified. I don't want to be alone again. Like when dad left. Dad was my hero. But one day, he just disappeared. Not a trace. I can't stand being abandoned like that. Never again. Ever. _

It was hours—or it felt like hours—before his tears stopped. And Antonio was tired again. Crying was exhausting, and left him thirsty. Gilbert sighed as Antonio sat up, wiping his eyes as he did. The 'Prussian' looked slightly awkward, but then, this emotional stuff was not his forte. This was, of course, aside from the fact that he was pretty good at making people feel better. Sure, he never knew what to say, but that rarely ever mattered.

"Toni? Do you feel better now?" the Frenchman asked.

He nodded. Wordless.

"Let's go out," Gilbert declared, a slightly desperate edge to his voice. Standing, he stretched out and sighed.

Both his friends gave him incredulous looks. Francis's eyes seemed to convey, _Really? Do you NOT sense the atmosphere? _

"Yes, out," the albino repeated. "Let's eat. It'll do everyone some good."

"Yes." Antonio said. "Yes. Okay. Can we have Italian?" His mind flit momentarily to Lovino. "I want some pizza or something."

"Feli's grandpa runs an Italian place," Gilbert offered. "It's cheap. We could go there."

"Okay," Francis declared, getting to his feet. "Italian it is."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Please review! **


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: I would have updated yesterday but for some reason, the Fanfiction server or whatever wasn't allowing me to do that. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

Probably the least favourite part of Lovino's day was his evening shift at his grandfather's restaurant. It was called _Rome's Italy, _which was, in Lovino's opinion, a tasteless and flamboyant name, that didn't actually make any sense. But their grandfather, Romulus, thought it was bloody clever, and didn't like hearing anything in contradiction.

The reason Lovino hated working at the family-friendly, student-friendly Italian restaurant was because that was where his grandfather's favouritism became blatantly obvious. It was always, "Feli, the customers at Table Six were congratulating you on the food!" or "Yes, Feliciano is our best chef!" or "Lovino, why did you burn the pasta? Honestly, can't you be more careful, like your brother?"

In their grandfather's opinion, Lovino was only good for waiting tables. Sometimes. (There was that one time Lovino tripped while holding someone's order. The pizza flew everywhere, and the customers threw a fit. In the elder twin's defence, however, _he'd been ill that day._)

But the fact was, their grandfather would give them an allowance based on how they worked through the week, so Lovino had no choice but to slog his evenings away in this stupid hell-hole.

He didn't bother even trying to smile as he placed someone's order at their table. The family had asked for two Cokes for the children, who were already digging into their pasta. When he set the drinks down, their mother said, "The food is excellent. Please tell your chef that."

He gave her a stiff nod. _Not that I have to tell my stupid fratello what a good cook he is. He already fucking knows. That bastard. _

It was as he walked across the room, back to the kitchen, that he heard the doors of the restaurant open, and a familiar group of voices flit across the room.

"…considering doing a rendition of _The Comedy of Errors, _but now that I know Arthur's going to be auditioning, I think I should just have a French play instead. That'll spite him. _Non?_"

"Kesesese! _Honestly, _Francis. That's kinda lame. Who'd want to watch a French play?"

"How would we understand the dialogue?"

Lovino almost let out a small yelp of horror at the third voice. What were the Spanish Bastard and his two friends even _doing _here? Fuck! Oh god, if they noticed him…Throwing caution to the wind, Lovino bolted towards the kitchen, slamming the double-doors behind him and jumping away from the tiny circular windows.

"Feli!" he cried. Dammit, tonight of all nights, there was a shortage of waiters. Lovino had _no backup. _There were only three other waiters there! He couldn't…he _wouldn't _be seen serving them. What would he even say to Antonio? After he'd caught that stupid Spaniard having that goddamn panic attack or whatever…well, it just made things so fucking awkward! He didn't know if he should even bring it up. And what if Antonio decided to talk about it himself? _Dio, _this was a nightmare.

_Plus, _he reminded himself, _I fucking hate all three of those assholes. _

Feliciano, who'd been helping the head-chef by making pizza sauce, looked up to see his brother. "Yes, Lovi?"

The elder twin skated across the kitchen to meet Feliciano, saying, "Switch with me."

"What?"

"Switch with me! You wait the tables, I'll make the sauce."

"Ve…Why? You know grandpa doesn't like it when you try to cook—"

"Just fucking do it, will you?"

"Grandpa'll get mad when he finds out!"

"Just forget about him for a minute!" Lovino cried. "Your _twin brother _needs your _help. _We shared a fucking womb, Feli! Can't you do me this one little favour?"

He could see Feliciano's determination sliding. Slowly, hesitantly, he nodded. "O-okay, _fratello._" Wiping his hands on his apron before he untied it, he took off the cap he wore to cover his hair around the food. "Please turn off the stove in five minutes, okay?" he asked, pointing at the pot of pizza sauce.

"Yeah, yeah, go!"

* * *

Matthew walked home with Ivan today. And Gilbert couldn't understand _why. _Just _why _was his adorable Birdie hanging out with that total creep!? He knew for a fact that Matthew wasn't cheating on him; the Canadian wouldn't. But something was definitely going on, and Gilbert felt the need to know.

He hated it when things were kept from him. Francis said it was some kind of childhood complex that was still playing with his mind, and Gilbert tended to agree. Francis was generally right about these things. And it made sense. There was that one time a couple of years ago when they threw the 'Prussian' a surprise-party for his birthday. Far from being ecstatic, Gilbert had been _appalled. _

Maybe it stemmed from the fact that as a child, Gilbert had felt extremely…excluded…from his family. To begin with, he was an albino, and was relentlessly teased for it as a child, before Francis and Antonio met him and the three of them began kicking the bullies' asses. And then Ludwig came along. Perfect, well-behaved Ludwig, who could never do any wrong. When he was young, Gilbert really did grow up thinking there was something wrong with him, something that made his parents forget he was there.

So yes, maybe that still had a role to play. But for Birdie of all people to keep things from him! Matthew knew what it felt like to be forgotten. It just…didn't feel right. Gilbert couldn't stand it. It felt unfair.

Of course, Matthew was entitled to his secrets. He was. He _was. _

Gilbert swallowed. He didn't want to be like one of those possessive bastards who wouldn't let their partners have their own lives. He wouldn't do something like that. Ever.

"Gilly? Are you even listening?"

Antonio's voice brought him out of his train of thought. "Hmm? What's up, Toni?"

"What do you want to eat?"

Gilbert grinned. "Anything with tons of meat."

"Francis wants a pasta of some sort, but he's taking ages to decide." At this, both the 'Prussian' and the Spaniard glanced at the Frenchman, who was poring over the menu with an extremely thoughtful expression on his face. Francis took food very seriously.

"What about you?" Gilbert asked.

Antonio's eyes dulled a little. He still looked quite downcast, and just shrugged. "I'm not really hungry, to be honest."

"You're going to fucking eat, Antonio."

Gilbert had _not _meant to snarl. But the ferocity in his voice made not just Antonio jump, but Francis look up.

Well, since he already had his friends' attention, he might as well just continue.

"You told me you weren't going to starve yourself for that stupid pianist. _Gott, _Toni, you're acting like a thirteen-year-old girl. I get it, you're hurt, but not eating is not a solution. Do you fucking understand a word coming out of my mouth?"

Antonio swallowed, and looked Gilbert dead in the eye. "Actually, I don't understand a word coming out of your mouth. When you get pissed off, your German accent gets really thick."

In that moment, Gilbert could have punched Antonio. But then, Francis snorted in laughter, and suddenly, all three of them were snickering like children.

"_Gott,_" Gilbert laughed. "You're such an asshole, Toni."

Still giggling, Francis said, "You want to share something with me? Gil's right, you should eat something."

The laughter died down. Gilbert gave Antonio the evil eye. The Spaniard caved.

"Yeah, okay. But whatever you're getting, I want extra tomatoes."

"Penne Arrabiata?" Francis asked. "That's like a spicy tomato sauce."

"Okay. Fine. But I still want extra tomatoes."

It was incredible that Francis had even agreed to eat Italian. Usually, he was such a fusspot when it came to food. He flat-out hated everything served in the school cafeteria, wouldn't even go near any fast food establishments, and considered everything that wasn't French cuisine to be inferior. Including Italian food. Going out to eat with him always ended up being a culinary expedition across town to find a French restaurant (that would be so expensive that they could almost never afford it, meaning that Francis had to be dragged to a McDonalds, kicking and screaming.)

But this was a nice restaurant. It had a rustic look about it, with cosy little booths and wooden tables. Italian music played on speakers, and it looked posh without looking snobbish. Plus, it was quite affordable, which just made everything even better.

"You think that's the manager?" Antonio asked, jerking his head towards somebody across the room. Antonio was sitting across Francis and Gilbert, and was looking at a person that was clearly out of the other two's line of sight.

Francis didn't bother looking up from the menu card—(why was he still studying it?)—but Gilbert craned his neck to where Antonio had indicated.

An extremely good-looking man was making rounds of the restaurant. He was tall, tanned, with chocolate hair and amber eyes. He must have been in his sixties, but he looked so attractive that Gilbert found himself getting a complex.

"If that is Feliciano's grandfather, then…wow."

"Tell me about it," Antonio agreed.

Suddenly—

"Ve, Gilbert! Francis! Antonio!"

The three of them looked up. Feliciano, wearing a waiter's uniform and holding a notepad and pen, was grinning at them.

Gilbert noticed Antonio turn a violent shade of maroon.

* * *

**A/N: The stage is set for a big misunderstanding! :P**

**Thanks for reading. Please review. **


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thank you for your reviews! **

* * *

When Antonio saw Feli, the first person he thought of was Lovino. And when he thought of Lovi, he remembered the incident from the day before, and that just made him feel really, really embarrassed. Without even realising it, he felt himself go bright red.

"H-hola, Feli," he stammered, giving the younger Vargas a trademark grin. "I'm surprised to see you here!" _Brilliant, brilliant. It's his grandfather's restaurant, genius. _

Feliciano grinned at the three of them before saying, "Ve, we work here, Lovi and I! What would you like to eat?" With a professional flick of his wrist, the Italian flipped open his notepad and put the pen to the paper.

Francis rattled off the order, shooting lecherous grins at the younger Vargas. Ideally, they would have some alcohol to go with it. But the restaurant didn't serve underage drinkers, and nobody wanted to get Feli into trouble by requesting some wine and beer anyway.

Back in the kitchen, Lovino was just finishing up with the pizza sauce. It wasn't like he couldn't cook; Lovino was a damn good chef, thank you very much. But Feliciano was better. Feliciano was always better.

That was what his grandfather had drilled into his head the previous night. _"Detention on the first day back, Lovino!? Swearing at a teacher? I got a phone call from your school right in the middle of lunch rush. Honestly, why can't you be a bit more like your brother? He's such a good student! I hope you plan to improve your ways. Why don't you study with Feli and his German friend? They're always doing their homework together! You could learn so much from them! I really want to see some change in attitude, young man. This kind of behaviour is not on." _

Never mind that it was Antonio who'd been talking to him, disturbing him. The truth was, Lovino was a straight-A student. Sure, he had to work three times as hard as Feliciano, and _sometimes, _he switched his Bs and Ds and got confused with the words, but he put in all his effort! It wasn't his fault that Feli was a naturally good student, despite sleeping through all his classes. And anyway, Lovino knew all too well that those 'study sessions' with the Potato Bastard was just the blonde doing his homework and Feli chatting on about pasta and football.

But Lovino was finding it harder and harder to blame the Spanish Bastard for detention. If yesterday was anything to go by, Antonio was clearly upset about something. _It's school, _Lovino told himself for the hundredth time. _Everyone's going through something. _But anyway, maybe talking was just the bastard's way of coping with it? N-not that Lovino cared, or anything. Because he didn't. Antonio Fucking Carriedo could suffer.

Speaking of which.

Despite himself, Lovino went towards the double-doors opening into the restaurant and peered through the circular windows. There was Feli, talking with that idiot 'Bad Touch Trio'.

Why the fuck was Antonio _blushing? _

A sudden surge of anger flared up, making Lovino ball his fists. Well, of _course _he was blushing as Feliciano spoke to him. Who wouldn't? With _CUTE LITTLE FELICI-FUCKING-ANO _right there, who wouldn't instantly fall in love with him?

If that Spanish Asshole even dared to get close to Feli, Lovino would kill him. His little brother attracted all sorts of unwanted attention, and there was no way in_ hell _that Lovino Vargas would allow his twin to go out with a member of the Bad Touch Trio. Over his dead fucking body. He knew he was jumping to conclusions, but still. And anyway, as far as school rumors went, Antonio had a boyfriend, right?

Lovino suddenly had to jump back as the doors swung open and his grandfather entered the busy kitchen.

"Lovino," he greeted. "I was just wondering why Feli's waiting tables instead of you."

"We decided to switch so that both of us could get the hang of doing different jobs," Lovino lied, maintaining level eye-contact with Romulus. Over the years, he'd learnt how to lie to the man. It was a skill vital for his survival.

Romulus gave Lovino a dubious look. "Fine. Don't make a mess, okay?"

Lovino grit his teeth. "Wouldn't dream of it." Turning back to the cooking platforms, he added, "I'm going to do dice some tomatoes."

* * *

"Ve, Toni, are you okay now?" Feliciano asked after he took their order.

Antonio, if possible, went even redder. Hell, he was trying _not _to remember that embarrassing episode. He was supposed to be tougher than this! _Stupid Roderich. This is all your fault, _he thought as he beamed a huge smile towards the Italian.

"Of course I am, Feli. Why wouldn't I be? I appreciate your concern, though. Wasn't it Lovi who told you?"

"Ve, Lovi told me!" Feliciano replied before saying, "I didn't know you were on a nickname basis with my brother."

"Er…" Antonio scratched the back of his neck. "Technically…well, he doesn't like me calling him that."

Feliciano giggled. "That isn't a surprise to me." Pocketing his notepad and pen, he said, "I'll be right back with your orders, you guys!"

Antonio watched everything happen in slow motion, his eyes wide and his reflexes quick.

* * *

Gilbert –and then Francis—had been watching the whole exchange with keen interest. Antonio turning redder and redder as he spoke to Feliciano, the huge smile and his awkward behaviour. Neither the Italian nor the Spaniard seemed to notice the waiter walking past the table, a heavily-laden tray in his hands.

In fact, nobody at the table even registered what was happening until Antonio reacted.

Feliciano pocketed his notepad and pen before wildly turning on his heels and—

And walking _straight into the other waiter. _

"FELI!" Antonio cried, just before the Italian collided with his colleague. With reflexes so shockingly fast that it left Gilbert gaping, the Spaniard had shot up and pulled Feliciano back by his shoulders, essentially throwing the Italian on top of himself and avoiding a potential disaster in the dining area.

* * *

Feliciano was aware of Antonio clutching his shoulders and pulling him back. Now, he was on top of the Spaniard, who was sprawled messily onto the booth's long bench. The waiter he almost collided into looked shell-shocked and horrified, before profusely apologising. Setting his tray down on the table, he offered Feli a hand, which the Italian accepted.

Antonio groaned as he sat up, rubbing the back of his head. "That hurt," he mumbled, blinking at Francis and Gilbert. Turning to the Italian, he added, "Feli, are you alright?"

"Ve, I'm fine, all thanks to you!" the younger Vargas chirped. "Thank you so much, Toni!"

Antonio chuckled, still in shock of what had transpired. "No problem at all, Feli."

He was totally oblivious to Francis and Gilbert exchanging glances.

* * *

"—And he saved my life!"

"Feliciano, _let me sleep!_" Lovino snarled, turning to his side as his younger brother chatted on. It was way past midnight, but his younger brother was still in his room, cuddling in his bed, wide awake in total darkness.

For fuck's sake, Feliciano had his own room. Why did he insist on always curling up in Lovino's bed? It just didn't make any sense.

"But I'm not tired," Feli complained.

Lovino groaned, burying his head under a pillow. "First of all," he snapped, his voice coming out muffled because of all the bedding, "He didn't _save your life, _he just prevented a minor mess and a few broken plates. I spoke to that waiter you almost collided with, okay? He told me what happened. So, shut the fuck up. You make it sound like he single-handedly rescued you from a burning building. God, Feli, you exaggerate everything so much!"

"You really don't like him, huh, _fratello?_"

"Of course I don't. The bastard got me into detention!"

"But he's your lab partner for chemistry for the rest of the year, right?"

"Don't fucking remind me."

"Ve, _fratello, _if you hate him so much, why did you tell Gilbert about him having a panic attack?"

At this, Lovino pushed himself upright and squinted in the darkness at his younger brother.

"Okay, first of all, he wasn't having a panic attack. Stop saying that, you'll give people the wrong idea. Secondly, I told Potato Bastard Number Two because—" and then he broke off, suddenly stumped. _Why DID I tell Gilbert Beilschmidt about Antonio? I shouldn't have bothered._

"Because?" Feliciano prompted, sounding mildly amused.

"Because…because if he died on his way home, I wanted to have a clear conscience."

There was a short silence after that statement, broken only by Feli's giggling and a light pat on his head. Lovino almost shouted at his brother for touching his hair, but Feli interrupted him, saying, "You did the right thing, _fratello._ I'm happy you found a friend."

"Bastard! He's not my friend!"

This bed gave a small groan as Feliciano rolled off it, getting to his feet and yawning. "If you say so, Lovi. I'm going to my room now. Good night!"

"He's not my friend!" Lovino repeated as Feliciano made for the room door and opened it.

In the dim light of the hallway, he could see his brother's outline pause. "Okay, Lovi."

"Feli, I'm serious! I would never, ever be friends with an asshole like that."

There was a smile in Feliciano's voice. "Ve, I believe you! Why do you keep repeating it? It's like you're trying to convince yourself."

Feliciano laughed as Lovino threw a pillow at him.

"I will never be friends with Antonio Carriedo," the elder Vargas declared. "Get out of my room, Feli. Good fucking night."

* * *

**A/N: Oh, Lovi. You're such a sweetheart. **

**Thanks for reading. Please review! **


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Chapter thirteen! Yay! Thanks for your reviews. Let the Spamano continue! :D**

* * *

"Hi, Lovi," Antonio chirped, sitting down beside him in math. His grin and behaviour gave no indication of mentioning the incident from before, so Lovino just blinked at him for a few seconds before replying.

"What do you want now, bastard?" but the words were weak, lacking their usual acerbic edge. The teacher hadn't come yet, and Antonio was turned fully towards the Italian. Lovino, for his part, didn't feel like talking to him. There was just too much Antonio-related fluff going on inside his head. Like, wasn't Antonio blushing when he was speaking to Feli, before? Didn't Antonio save Feli from possibly getting hurt? And, what had happened to him, that day? Was he alright now? Was he pretending to not mention the episode of depression?

Also, and most importantly, was Antonio his _friend?_

Oh, hell no.

NO.

He barely even knew the bastard.

"I came to your grandpa's restaurant yesterday," Antonio began. "I saw Feli, but I didn't see you. Were you in the kitchen?"

Lovino narrowed his eyes. "Are you stalking me, you fucking pervert?"

The Spanish Bastard laughed. "I just wanted to talk to you, that's all. I wanted to say thanks."

_Wha—_Lovino didn't know his jaw was hanging open until he heard Antonio laugh before putting a hand under the Italian's chin and gently closing it. His skin was warm, hot, almost like sunlight on a tomato field. But it was natural, not feverish, heat. His green eyes were sparkling, and Lovino noticed the perpetual smile in them. This felt…strange.

And naturally, Lovino went violently red.

"Bastard!" he hissed, pushing Antonio's hand away from him. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Antonio didn't look the slightest bit hurt. He just laughed. Instead, he brought his hand up to cover his mouth as he started snickering in full force. "_¡Dios mío!_ Your face is all red! You look like a cute little tomato!"

"What the _fuck _did you just say!?" Lovino spluttered, his face getting darker and darker.

"I said thank you," Antonio replied, his chuckles subsiding. "You called Gilbert, right? It was…really nice of you. I mean, we barely even know each other, but I really do appreciate that you were so concerned."

"I wasn't concerned!" Lovino protested. "I just didn't want your shit on my conscience! And I don't look like a fucking tomato!"

Antonio cocked his head one side, giving him a knowing smile. "Still, Lovi. Thanks." After a short pause, he added, "So, _mi tomate, _you never answered. Will you teach me how to draw?"

"Go fuck yourself, you stupid Tomato Bastard!" Lovino snapped, turning away from Antonio and staring resolutely to his desk. With a sudden gasp, his head jerked up. "_What _did you call me?"

"Lovi?" Antonio asked, his voice coated with fake, teasing innocence.

Lovino launched up from his chair, his hands curling around Antonio's shirt. With strength he didn't know he had, the Italian yanked the Spaniard towards him, making the desk jerk and screech. The general buzz of the class fell dead silent as Lovino leaned his lips towards Antonio's ear. With his voice dripping poison, he whispered—only for Antonio to hear—"I am not your fucking tomato."

When he let go, Antonio fell back against his chair. Lovino stood over him, glowering. He could feel everyone watching the exchange with great interest. It was not every day that Antonio Fernandez Carriedo got threatened like that by anybody.(Even though nobody had actually heard a word Lovino had whispered to the Spaniard.) Antonio was an extremely good-looking young man, and he played football in his free time. Not many tried to pick a fight with him. They were either too dazzled or too scared.

Naturally, everyone expected the Spaniard to shoot out of his seat and punch the living daylights out of Lovino. It _had _happened once before two years ago—Antonio and Arthur got into a fist-fight so furious that both of them ended up breaking bones.

So, it came as quite a shock when Antonio blinked stupidly and then burst out laughing. "Oh my god, Lovi," he giggled, soft enough for only the Italian's ears, "You're so cute."

That was it.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU STUPID BASTARD!"

And it was right then that the teacher walked into class and groaned. "Mr. Vargas," she sighed, setting her books down on the table. "Why must you begin every single day with profanities?"

* * *

"Lili, _ma chère, _can I speak with you for a moment?"

Both Vash and Lili whipped around, the older brother automatically putting a protective hand around his younger sister. And with good reason. Francis had a reputation for flirting with the younger students. Lili, two years junior to the Frenchman, was also quite petite and innocent, and had an almost obsessively overprotective elder brother.

And Vash always got extra jumpy around Francis Bonnefoy. In fact, the only reason he was in the drama club was to make sure the Frenchman kept the hell away from his sister.

"Hello, Francis!" Lili said with a smile. "What's up?"

Francis's blue eyes twinkled. "Can you come with me for a second?"

"She has class," Vash said, his curt voice bordering on dangerous.

"This won't take long."

Lili stepped up and walked towards the Frenchman, who promptly put an arm around her shoulder and guided her out of earshot. He knew Vash was right there, glaring at the pair of them, but really, Francis didn't care.

"Lili," he began, "You're handling the roster for the drama club, right? Has Arthur Kirkland signed up to audition? Alfred told me he had."

"Yes, he has," Lili confirmed. "Why?"

"What play are they supposed to recite, again?"

"All the candidates have to do one stanza from any of Shakespeare's famous plays."

"I see. That's what I thought." Francis fell silent for a moment. Then, Francis set his backpack on the floor and began to shuffle through it, idly humming to himself as he did. With a sudden click of his tongue, he pulled out a loose sheet of paper and handed it to the girl. "Take this_,_" Francis declared. "These are a couple of lines from a French play. Give this to Arthur, and tell that this is what he has to perform."

Lili blinked at the sheet of paper, her eyes quickly glancing through the fact that there wasn't a single word in English. "Francis, you can't make him perform a French play. He doesn't even know French!"

"Nonsense. He's in my French class." With a pause and a slight smirk, he added, "Arthur never does well, though."

"It's cheating," Lili declared. "It's unfair. How can he prepare for an audition in a language he doesn't understand, while all the other candidates get to do Shakespeare?"

Francis sighed. "Lili, Lili, Lili. You don't know him like I do. He'll enjoy the challenge." _And I'll enjoy embarrassing him. _"Besides, it is the mark of a good actor to convince the audience using not his words, but his body language. I am sure Arthur can pull this off."

Her brow started to furrow. Francis could be very convincing, and Lili wasn't exactly one of toughest people to sway. Sure, if this was, say, Elizabeta, Francis would get punched in the face. Not Lili, though.

He gave her one of his puppy-dog smiles. "_Mon ami _Arthur will see this as a challenge, and he will rise to the occasion. Trust me. Please? Arthur and I go way back, and I know him like the back of my hand. It's not cheating, Lili. It's providing encouragement. By placing an obstacle."

Lili looked from Francis to the sheet of paper. She sighed. "Well…okay." Her shoulders slumping, she mumbled, "Alright, Francis. I'll do it."

"Ah, _merci!" _in English, he added, "Thank you so much. If he complains about it, tell him that everyone is being given a foreign language play."

"Francis, I can't lie! You know I can't!"

"Oh, you'll think of something, I'm sure." Winking at her, he added, "You're a smart girl."

Vash appeared out of nowhere. "Francis, Lili has _class,_" he spat. The way he said the word 'class' implied a double meaning; Lili didn't just have to attend a lecture, she also had standards that Francis couldn't possibly hope to meet.

Oh, please.

Grinning at the siblings, the Frenchman said, "Oh, that's fine. We were done, anyway. Right, Lili?"

Her hand tightened around the paper. "Right."

As they walked away, Francis stood there, smirking at his brilliance. If Arthur could get through this, he'd be impressed. Very impressed.

* * *

_Two Hours Later_

* * *

Lovino liked to sit on the terrace. It was private. Nobody ever thought to look for him here. It was where he liked to spend his free time. Just sitting, or standing, looking out into the school garden. Watching. Sometimes, he would settle down on the dusty floor, or lie on his back, staring at the sky. He'd fallen asleep like that several times, completely undisturbed.

It was how he calmed down. Lovino knew he was easily aggravated by things. He didn't know why this was, but everything just got on his nerves. There was scant little he could do to help himself relax. He had no friends to distract him, he had no special talents or skills. Nobody even liked him. And why would they? Who would possibly choose rude, pathetic Lovino over his adorable, talented twin brother?

He sighed, sitting down with his back against the terrace wall. The high barriers on all sides meant he couldn't see the gardens, but he didn't mind. The sky was lovely today. It was like the blue had been painted with water-colours, with delicate puffs of white dotting the horizon. It could have been one of Feliciano's artworks.

Suddenly, he heard the metallic terrace door swing open. The Italian stiffened, and then a frown came upon his features. What the fuck was Antonio Carriedo doing here, invading his privacy? Why couldn't he just be left alone, dammit!?

Antonio looked around, his face brightening when he spotted Lovino. The Spaniard bounded up to him.

"Hi, Lovi," he said happily, sitting down beside the Italian.

"What are you doing here?" Lovino asked, too weary to even bother swearing.

"I couldn't find you. So I asked Feli, who said you like to hang out here. So I checked. And hey, here you are!"

Lovino groaned, drawing his knees up to his chin. "What the fuck do you want? I come out here to be alone."

"Ah," Antonio said in apparent understanding. "In that case, do you mind if I sit here and 'be alone' as well?"

Lovino lifted his head up and threw a disdainful glance his way. "You can't 'be alone' with someone else, _idiota._" Pausing, he added, "Unless you're a fucking pervert, in which case, get the fuck away from me. I'm not interested."

Antonio chuckled. "Ah, Lovi, don't worry. I just came looking for you because I'm bored. And all alone. And that's disappointing." At this, his face actually fell. It was only a momentary slip before the smile returned to his features.

"Don't you have your stupid friends?" Lovino spat.

"Francis has drama club work and Gilbert's with Matthew."

"Go hang out with my brother, then. He fucking loves you, doesn't he?"

Antonio blinked. "But I want to sit with you. You're my new friend, _si?_"

"No, I am NOT your new friend. I've barely known you a day!"

"Okay, I can tell you about me," Antonio said, clapping his hands together.

"No, don't. I don't give a shit about—"

"My mom and dad were from Spain, but they moved here when I was a baby. I really like tomatoes—I have a tomato plant named Churro, which Feli gave me. I love football and music, especially the guitar. I like dancing! But I rarely have a good partner. I mean, Roderich hated dancing, so that was out of the question. Um, what else? Okay, my dislikes. I hate it when people lie, or when they bully others. I hate seeing people sad. And I hate English food, but who doesn't? And…and…ooh, I hate that game, Flappy Bird, because I always lose!"

Lovino blinked. Antonio had said all of this in one breath. He didn't even understand most of it, except for—"What the fuck is a Flappy Bird?"

Antonio's eyes widened. "It's a game, Lovi! Here, I'll show you!" And as Antonio began to take out his phone, Lovino's hand on his wrist stopped him.

"Don't. I don't give a shit."

Antonio chuckled. "Phew. That's good, because I always lose, so it's really frustrating. That game is so hard." Almost without a second's wait, he added, "So, that's me. Tell me about you!"

"No. Fuck off. Leave me alone."

"Why?"

"Because I like being alone."

"See, now I know something about you that I didn't already." Antonio's grin was so wide it made the sun look like a flake of glitter. Lovino groaned.

"Why do you even care? Go bug someone else."

"So, what do you like?" Antonio rattled off, ignoring Lovino's last comment. "Apart from being alone, I mean." His eyes widened as he cried, "Oh, you like to draw! Lovi, Lovi, _please _show me how to draw. I'm so bad at it. And you're brilliant! Please!"

"If you want to learn so fucking bad, ask Feliciano!" Lovino snarled. "He's better at it, anyway."

"Impossible. You're the best."

"No, I'm not. Leave me the fuck alone."

"Teach me how to _draaaaaaaw._"

"Will you just—"

"_Teach meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—"_

"FUCK OFF, YOU TOMATO BAS—"

"_Lovi, pleeeaaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—"_

"Shut up—"

"_Please, please, pleaseeeeee—"_

"For fuck's sake!" Lovino shouted. "Fine! I'll teach you how to fucking draw!" With that, he reached into his backpack and whipped out his notebook, making sure to hit Antonio on the head with it before he opened a fresh page.

* * *

**A/N: xD Well, that was fun. **

**Thanks for reading. Please review! **


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Thanks for your reviews!**

* * *

Lovino couldn't believe he'd laughed. But, in fact, Antonio's childlike pouting and whining and cries of, 'Lovi, I can't draw this!' made Lovino snicker, partly at the Spaniard, and party because of him. Lovino hadn't actually tried to teach Antonio anything. He'd just taken out his notebook to doodle something—just enough to pacify the green-eyed teen. Antonio, taking out a sheet of paper, had tried to copy him.

Now, however, Lovino glanced at the time on his cell phone and muttered, "We have history together, don't we, bastard?"

Antonio blinked at the sudden switch in conversation before nodding. "_Si_."

"We need to go in ten minutes."

"Okay." Antonio's features relaxed. Despite his laughing and pouting, the Spaniard's green eyes had held a tightness that Lovino could empathise with but not understand. The tanned boy sighed, setting down his pen and stretching his arms. "We have a lot of classes together," he muttered, not for the first time.

"Yeah. Don't fucking remind me," Lovino responded, though his tone was almost conversational, lacking its usual acidic quality.

"We don't have music, though," Antonio muttered. "You haven't opted for music."

"Why the fuck would I opt for music? I don't even fucking play anything."

Giving Lovino a sideways look, Antonio said, "I have music right now. I skipped. You may have this class free, but I actually don't."

"A fucking rebel, you are," Lovino replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Antonio laughed. "Do I owe you an explanation for the other day?" he questioned. "I've already told my mom, and Francis and Gilbert. Though, in all honesty, you're the only one who deserves to know. You found me."

Lovino felt a chill run down his spine, and his stomach flipped uncomfortably. Avoiding Antonio's gaze, he muttered, "I don't give two shits what happened to you." From the corner of his eyes, he saw the Spaniard change his seating position and sigh once more.

"Alright, Lovi. I won't bother you about it, then."

Minutes passed in an awkward silence, broken only by the distant stab of the school bell. Lovino muttered a curse under his breath as he put his notebook inside his bag. History was next. Great. Just great. Would that stupid Tomato Bastard sit right next to him, again? Probably. Antonio was a fucking weirdo, always insisting on spending his time with someone as unpleasant as Lovino Vargas.

The stairs leading up to the terrace had a janitor's closet under them. Lovino almost forgot it was there. All he did know was that this corridor in particular was rather secluded, since very few classes were taken here. Music, Art and Food Tech were the only courses that were held in this hallway.

The result of that was that when the classes ended, only a small number of students flood out of the rooms, just as Antonio and Lovino descended the staircase and into the main corridor.

That's when it happened.

"_¡Dios mío!_" Antonio suddenly hissed. And before Lovino could react, the Spaniard had bolted towards the janitor's closet under the stairs and locked himself inside.

"What the actual fuck?" Lovino almost shouted.

Antonio didn't respond.

The Italian groaned. "I don't fucking have the time for this." Approaching the door, he spoke, "Tomato Bastard, I'm going to fucking leave you in there, if you don't get the fuck out right now."

From behind the door, Antonio's muffled voice said, "Are they gone? Roderich Edelstein and Elizabeta Hedervary, I mean."

"What the actual fuck?" Lovino repeated in an undertone, whipping around despite himself to scan the corridor. There he saw them. The Austrian Bastard and the beautiful Hungarian girl, hand-in-hand as they turned around the bend and slipped out of sight.

The Italian groaned. "The coast is clear." After a short pause, he added, "You fucking asshat, do you plan on hiding in there all day? We have history, moron!"

Slowly, the closet door opened and Antonio stepped out, chuckling in almost nervous laughter and scratching the back of his head. "_Lo siento._ I panicked."

Lovino rolled his eyes.

"Lovi, can I ask you something?"

"What do you want?"

"What is an 'asshat'? That word doesn't even make sense."

Lovino blinked, and in one swift movement, pushed Antonio to the floor. The Spaniard let out a small 'uff!' in surprise as he landed on his butt, blinking in confusion as Lovino stood over him, glowering.

"Asshat," the Italian repeated before marching off.

* * *

Gilbert lost it when he saw Ivan standing next to Matthew at the Canadian's locker. The large Russian was towering over his boyfriend, his violet eyes bright and a smile—_psychotic, sadistic, evil—_on his face.

A memory he tried to forget came floating up to him.

"_Kolkolkolkolkol, stupid albino!"_

"_Leave me alone!" Tears, terror. A Russian fist connecting with a German—Prussian—face. _

"_When I say 'give me your lunch money', you give it to me. Da?" A psychotic, sadistic, evil smile. _

"_Please—ouch, no! It hurts! Ow! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"_

They'd both been twelve-years-old. Gilbert had been a different person back then. He'd been withdrawn in the corridors and disruptive in class. He'd been small and scrawny, terrified of big-boned bullies like Ivan. As they grew, Ivan stopped being such a nasty prick, but his reputation still made people fear him.

Gilbert stormed up to the two of them, roughly pushing Ivan against the lockers. Matthew yelped, and Ivan gasped in surprise. "Get the fuck away from him, you creep!" the albino roared, lifting him by his collar and slamming him into the lockers again. This time, Ivan's books slipped from his hands, clattering to the floor.

"Gilbert, stop!" Matthew shouted. "Stop it!"

"He's fucking dangerous, Birdie," Gilbert snarled, not taking his eyes off the Russian. "You don't know him like I do."

A crowd had formed, with some idiots chanting 'Fight! Fight! Fight!' Matthew's attempts at resolving the conflict were completely futile, and for his part, Ivan hadn't even bothered to fight back. He was just looking at Gilbert helplessly, purple eyes invading red.

"Hey, hey, woah!" the gym teacher, a large, burly man, pushed past the crowd and caught hold of Gilbert's shoulder. "Break it up, you two. _Gilbert Beilschmidt, _let him go!"

And suddenly, out of nowhere, a rock-hard palm hit Gilbert in the shoulder, and without warning, Matthew had pulled Gilbert off Ivan. The Canadian's eyes, that subtle mix of violet and blue, were burning. "I told you to stop it, Gilbert," Matthew spoke, his voice barely audible but somehow fifty times more dangerous than ever before.

"But—"

"Matvey," Ivan said. The Russian looked pale, completely dishevelled as he straightened his clothes. "I'm sorry, Matvey. I think I should go." Ivan picked up his books from the floor and walked off, his gait unsteady, almost tired.

The gym teacher, in the meantime, was ordering the crowd away, and as they dissipated, turned to glare at Gilbert. "You're just lucky I like you, Beilschmidt, or I'd send you to detention right away."

Before Gilbert could even react to this statement, Matthew snarled, "You're such a…you're such a…" The Canadian looked like he was about to say something really offensive, but the fact that the gym teacher was still around was stopping him. Finally, Matthew cried, "You're such a jerk! You know nothing about him!"

"Mattie—"

"No, Gilbert! Just…just get lost." And with that, the Canadian had stormed off, in the same direction as Ivan had gone.

* * *

Arthur glanced from the French play in his hands and then let his eyes meet Lili's. _That French wanker, _the Englishman thought, as his face set into a deadpan expression. Lili just smiled at him. It was impossible to take out any rage on her. She was just too sweet.

"So, for the audition, I need to act out this scene. From a _French _play," the blonde repeated, waving the sheet of paper in her face.

"I'm afraid so. It helps us understand who's just reciting lines, and who's really _acting. _Did you know that there was once a Polish actress who was known for her dramatic flair? Once, at a dinner party, she made a toast, entirely in Polish, and all the guests—none of whom understood the language—started crying. They were that moved by her speech, by how she said it." Lili paused, blinking and smiling, as she added, "Later, it was discovered that she was just reciting the Polish alphabet*****."

"What?" Arthur snapped.

"Yes, it's a true story. Feliks told me. And Francis thought, well, what better way to weed out the best actors than to give them foreign-language plays to perform? It'll really show us the candidate's true talent."

_What a load of rubbish, _Arthur thought. But there was a set smile on his face. "I suppose that makes sense," the British student said. "Alright. I'll have to act out this French play, then. Thank you for letting me know, Lili."

_You absolute ARSE, Francis Bonnefoy. _Arthur balled his fists as a deep smirk formed on his features._ Heh. Fine. Two can play this game. _

* * *

*** Though I might have messed up the details a bit, this is a true story. I read it in a historical non-fiction. Also, I'm sorry for the MASSIVE inconsistencies in giving focus to the other pairings. I've never written something with this many pairings before.**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: A little warning. Updates _MAY_ get slower, because I only have one other chapter written up. I'll keep trying to update every day, though. I'm writing chapter sixteen as soon as I finish this.**

* * *

_Two Days Later. _

_Friday._

* * *

Dare he say it, Lovino was falling into routine. It had only been two days, of course, but he could see the signs. The ease and comfort of sliding next to Antonio in Chemistry, the snarky, rude retorts that inevitably left the Tomato Bastard laughing. They would even walk to classes together—well, Antonio would tag along, despite Lovino's complaints. During Antonio's music class and Lovino's free periods, they'd go to the terrace. Separately. Lovino would sneak off there, and the Spaniard would find him and not leave him alone.

And they just talked. Lovino didn't even know what about. Random things. Antonio would blabber on and on about tomatoes or guitars or dancing or FIFA (and how he wept when Spain lost to Netherlands that day. It was embarrassing—both the defeat, and Antonio's reaction to it.)

The only times he saw Antonio visibly deflate was whenever the Austrian Bastard or Elizabeta were nearby. Lovino wasn't very up-to-date with school gossip, but he had a sneaking suspicion he knew what was happening here. He could always as Feli, of course, but that somehow…felt rude. Almost like a breach of trust. Antonio hadn't brought it up, and Lovino didn't want to pry.

What surprised the Italian the most was that he wasn't resisting. Of course he cussed at the Spaniard, and of course, he would really like to be left alone. But he'd expected to put up more of a fight against the tomato-obsessed teen. Sure, he still found it awkward and uncomfortable to talk to him, and Lovino didn't really try to make conversation like Antonio did. But still. This was…surprising. And Lovino wasn't sure how he felt about it yet.

He could tell, however, that he was slipping into a new system. And he didn't mind as much as he thought he would.

The only time Antonio would actually let him be was during lunch, where he would bound up to his friends. Things had been really quiet at the Bad Touch Trio's table over the last couple of days. Even Potato Bastard Number Two seemed subdued.

"I'm going to fail," Antonio groaned, dropping his head to the desk as he shut his chemistry textbook in surrender. The teacher was late today, and he'd been trying to flip through the chapter to understand it.

"What the fuck is the problem?" Lovino snapped. "It really isn't that difficult, stupid."

Raising his head just a little, Antonio said, "Well, you're a genius, so it's not hard for you."

"I'm not a genius. You're just dumb. You…you Tomato Head."

Antonio snickered. "Tomato Head. That's funny, Lovi."

"Oh, shut up." Rolling his eyes, Lovino reopened Antonio's chemistry textbook and said, "You're going to have to study this shit if you want to pass the class test on Monday."

"I'm dead," Antonio sighed.

Lovino hit him on the crown. Hard. He yelped.

"Stop fucking whining."

"Loooovi. It's not easy for me! I don't get any of this! I need help."

Antonio's green eyes were blinking at Lovino, looking hopeful and expectant.

"No."

"Please? I really will fail the test!"

"No."

"Aw, come on, Lovi! Please?"

And there he went with the eyes again. Wide, slightly mischievous, childlike. _Appealing. _Lovino immediately dismissed the thought. With a long-suffering groan, the Italian crossed his arms and pouted. "Oh, fuck you, Antonio."

"YAY!" Antonio cried, suddenly invading Lovino's personal space with a bone-crushing hug.

"Let me go!" the Italian squeaked, wriggling, twisting, and shoving Antonio off the chair. As the Spaniard hit the ground, the Italian's scowl deepened. "Don't touch me. You creep."

Antonio laughed. "Lovi, thank you for agreeing to tutor me! You're the best!"

* * *

The judges were: Vash (he worked with technicals), Feliks (one hell of a costume designer), Neel (who choreographed the most legendary Bollywood-style dance numbers), and of course, Francis. The candidates were a string of people from all kinds of countries, from Belarus to Cuba, and most of them gave brilliant performances of Shakespeare.

_Well, of course they bloody did. That git Francis tricked me. And Lili helped! Well, I already knew that. _"You should have just let me audition with Shakespeare," Arthur muttered in an undertone. "Now, Francis, you're going to pay."

Arthur was standing backstage. An Indonesian girl was currently performing, and she was pretty good, if not a little nervous. The Brit would be next. In his head, Arthur rehearsed exactly what he was going to do, while glancing through the sheet of French in his hands. Arthur knew French. Not terribly well—actually, he barely scraped by in the language last year. (But the school offered only three foreign languages: French, Spanish and German, and a student _had_ to pick one! So he'd closed his eyes and made a blind decision. In hindsight, it had been an awful idea.)

He heard a round of polite applause as the Indonesian girl finished, and he heard Elizabeta calling his name.

"And next up, Arthur Kirkland."

"This is it," he muttered, a smirk forming on his lips. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out on the stage, the French play still in his hand.

* * *

"Ah, _mon ami,_" Francis crooned, trying not to laugh. Noticing the paper in Arthur's hands, he said, "You know you're not supposed to read your lines, _oui?_" Just to irritate the stupid Brit, he emphasised his accent, making it even more French. "I 'eard you're going to do a French play for us, _oui? _'ow _fantastique_! Naturally, I will take a personal interest in this."

Arthur Kirkland gave him a tight-lipped smile, and in an extremely polite tone of voice, said, "My, my, I'm so sorry about this, Francis, but French isn't my first language. I wonder if it would be possible for me to read from the sheet?"

"_Oui, _I understand," Francis beamed. "I will allow it."

Arthur also smiled, and said, "Thank you, my dear lad. Shall I begin?"

"Please do."

And then, Arthur looked at the sheet, looked and Francis, and did something absolutely vile.

Let it be known that Francis knew the lines of the play. The excerpt he'd made Lili give Arthur was actually the main character introducing himself. So, Francis looked on in abject horror as Arthur began to speak.

"Jay ma apple Jackes. Jey se-vuisse un actor dans lay cinema de—" and then Arthur made some horrible choking noises, stubbornly trying to imitate—no, not imitate, insult!—the French accent.

* * *

From the look on Francis's face, it was working. The Frenchman had lost all colour, his blue eyes were wide in shock and disgust, and his fists, resting on the table, were balled. Arthur almost burst out laughing right there. Because if you want to get under Francis Bonnefoy's nerves, make fun of his language.

So, Arthur continued. Mispronouncing every word was a lot of fun, actually.

"Parhkce ke jay name pass yune sack-a-dose, ooh j'ashit une—"

"STOP! _MON DIEU, STOP. _YOU'RE RAVISING MY EARS!"

Beside Francis, Feliks and Neel had collapsed in laugher, and even Vash was smiling. Lili and Elizabeta, sitting in the audience—along with a few more random people—were snickering, too. And Francis was standing, shaking his fists at Arthur, his eyes wide and angry. His French accent was getting more and more pronounced as he grew agitated, which just made Arthur want to roll on the floor, dying of mirth.

This had worked better than expected.

Francis now jumped over the long desk and marched up to the stage. "You think this is funny?!" he shouted.

"Funny?" Arthur questioned, looking at Francis innocently. "I don't know what I did wrong, Francis, I really don't. But you know I'm not comfortable with French. Did I mispronounce something?"

"YOU MISPRONOUNCED EVERYTHING! ON PURPOSE!"

"On purpose? I would never do such an awful thing."

"I know you did it to rile me up," the Frenchman said, dropping his voice several octaves, making it loud enough only for the Briton to hear.

"And it worked," Arthur muttered, a smirk forming on his lips.

"_Oui. _It did. Well played, _mon ami. _I am impressed." Crossing his arms, a look of amusement crossed Francis's once-furious features. "You are an…'ow do you say…asshole."

Arthur chuckled. "So are you." He paused, and then added, "Monday, I'm going to audition again. With Shakespeare. None of this French stuff."

Raising an eyebrow, Francis said, "The audition is today. And you, I'm afraid, have failed."

Arthur crossed his arms, and chuckled again. "Alright, then. I guess I'll have no choice but to make sure everyone finds out that you _enjoy eating scones._"

Francis gasped, leaning into Arthur's ear as he feverishly whispered, "That was _one time, _and I was _drunk._"

Arthur snorted. "Monday, Francis. Shakespeare." And with that, he pushed the sheet of paper into the Frenchman's hands, turned on the balls of his feet and walked off the stage.

* * *

"What was that about?" Vash asked when Francis took his seat again.

The Frenchman smirked to himself. "The game is on*."

"Did you just quote an English TV show?" Feliks laughed.

Francis looked Feliks in the eye, and translated, "_Le jeu commence._"

* * *

**A/N: ****By the way, for those of you who don't know this, "The game is on," is a popular line from the BBC show called 'Sherlock'.**

**Also, 'Neel' is the human name I've given to India, since I can't for the life of me find the official human name. Does he have one? I don't think so. And I didn't want to give something as boring as Raj or whatever. The amount of foreign media naming Indian males 'Raj' is simply astonishing. **


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Filler chapter. *Facepalm*.**

**Also, I don't think I've mentioned this, so I'm just going to go ahead and say it. As much as I love PruCan, I've read some brilliant Abusive!Prussia PruCan fics where Mattie is a victim and Gilbert is a dickhead. I _love _Gilbert, and though I really don't think he would _ever _hurt the people he cared about, I get the feeling that he can be very dangerous, and Abusive!Gilbert doesn't seem out of the realm of possibility. If you ask me, PruCan has two sides. Adorable, and unhealthy. It all depends on how you write it. **

**This fic will have absolutely no Abusive!PruCan, but I just thought I should mention my views on this pairing, because Gilbert is clearly being a bit possessive in this story. **

* * *

Two days. Gilbert had been calling and texting Matthew for two days, with no avail. This was apart from the fact that he would bound up to the Canadian in the school corridors, trying to get him to _listen. _Matthew, however, would just mutter something softly and disappear into the crowd. And damn, that kid was brilliant at vanishing!

Gilbert had even gone up to the Jones-William's house. Thrice. On the first time, on the very day of their argument, he'd rung their doorbell with a fully prepared apology speech. Alfred had opened.

"What's up, dude?" the American brother had cheerfully asked. "If you're looking for Matthew, he's out. He seemed in a really bad mood, though. And he wouldn't tell me what happened." Shrugging, the blonde continued, "Must have had a bad day."

For a moment, Gilbert had considered telling the American about their fight in the corridor. And then, he quickly changed his mind. Alfred was insanely protective of his younger brother, and it had taken _ages _for Gilbert to even get on good terms with him. Sure, they were friends now, but it was a fickle bond.

"Do you know where he is?" the 'Prussian' asked.

"Not a clue. I think he said something about Ivan?" at the Russian's name, Alfred's eyes darkened. "They're friends or something, right?" Heh. Of course. The American disliked Ivan almost as much as Gilbert did.

"Or something," Gilbert sighed. Rolling his eyes, he said, "Al…can you tell him I came by? He wouldn't answer his phone."

"Sure!" Alfred yipped, happy as a puppy. "I'll let him know."

That, of course, had been three days ago. On the _second _day, Gilbert had shown up at the doorstep yet again. He should have realised that Alfred had been avoiding him in school, but the thought just didn't occur to him.

So, when Alfred opened the door, Gilbert was met with cold blue eyes behind rectangular glasses. "Gilbert," the American muttered. His jaw was set, his posture was straight, his tone clipped and formal. "Matthew told me what happened, and he doesn't want to see you."

"Is he home?" the Prussian cried. "I really, really need to talk to him!"

"He's out." And with that, Alfred slammed the door in his face.

Gilbert's third try was a total disaster. Alfred caught him by his collar and hissed, "Look, you hurt my brother. You made him upset. If you don't want me to break your neck, you're going to stop bothering us."

And that was that.

* * *

**Mattie this is the 38 time im texting u! please can v talk? M really srry abt the whole ivan thing. Please give me a chance to explain myself**

**Birdie please dont be mad! **

**Birdie :( **

Gilbert stared at the screen of his phone for a long moment before sighing and pocketing the device. At the breakfast table, Ludwig was eating his hash brown sausage baked dish as their parents read the paper.

Gilbird, Gilbert's cute little canary, flew from his perch on the wall to the albino's shoulder. _At least one Birdie still wants to hang out with me, _he thought bitterly as he ran a finger over the tiny creature's head. It nipped his hand affectionately, and the Prussian smiled.

Finishing the last of his breakfast, Gilbert put away his plate. He usually loved Saturdays, but somehow, he really wasn't feeling it. All he could think about was the lame homework he had to finish, Ivan, Matthew, Antonio's stupid Roderich, Alfred threatening to kill him, Ivan, childhood bullies, Matthew…

"What's the matter, _bruder_?"

Gilbert almost jumped as Ludwig came up from behind him. As ever, the blonde's tone held no emotion, always sounding quiet and formal.

"What, Luddy?" Gilbert asked. "Nothing's the matter. Stop worrying your little head." And with that, the albino ruffled his brother's immaculately combed hair. Ludwig slapped the albino's hand away, and Gilbert smirked.

Well, at least annoying Ludwig was still fun.

* * *

On Saturdays, thankfully, the Vargas twins didn't have to work at their grandfather's restaurant. The reasoning behind this was simple. Romulus wanted the boy's to finish their homework over the weekend. Which, of course, they didn't actually do. Their grandfather knew this, but didn't bother them. They were just kids, after all! They deserved to have some time to themselves.

Despite this, it was always Feliciano who would chatter on and on about his plans for the day, all of them somehow involving Ludwig Beilschmidt. Lovino always sat quiet, and when Romulus would ask, "So, Lovi, what do you plan to do over the weekend?" the older twin would always say, "Nothing."

This time, however, the roles were reversed.

It was Feli who sat quietly. In fact, he was so silent, that Lovino barked, "What's the matter? Choked on your own pasta or something?"

At the breakfast table, Romulus sipped a cup of coffee as he watched the exchange between the boys. Feliciano carefully set his toast down, before saying, "Ve, I think Luddy's mad at me."

"Why?" Lovino muttered.

"He's been so weird! He's avoiding me." And with that, the younger brother's eyes filled up. Lovino looked a combination of surprise and annoyance as Feli wept. "I don't know what I did wrong! But he would barely look at me in school and now he even cancelled our movie plan!" With an enormous wail, he buried his head into his hands.

"Feli," Romulus said, rising from his seat as he went to his grandson. "It's okay, Feli! Maybe he has something on his mind? I'm sure you did nothing wrong."

"It must be because he eats all those potatoes," Lovino offered. "Potatoes can fuck up your head."

Despite that, Feliciano cried for a good ten minutes before finally settling down. It took a lot of convincing on Romulus's part, and Lovino kept suggesting to just a) call the Potato Bastard and talk it over, and b) Kick the Potato Bastard in the groin.

Normalcy finally returned to the breakfast table. Well, actually, a crying Feliciano was a pretty usual thing at the Vargas home. Conversation went from Ludwig, to school, to the weekend, and finally, to Lovino.

"So, Lovi, what are your plans for today?" Romulus asked.

Lovino's head jerked towards his grandfather, almost taken off-guard. The older brother's jaw fell slack for a few seconds as he floundered around for the right words. Romulus observed this with great interest. Sure, Lovino _did _get flustered pretty easily. But even then, why would he stumble over such a simple question. Even Feliciano was looking at his brother with curious eyes.

"I…" Lovino began, suddenly turning an alarming shade of red. "I'm studying," he finally managed to say. "With a fri—with an acquaintance."

What.

Romulus's eyes widened, as did Feli's.

"A friend?" the grandfather asked. "That's wonderful, Lovino. I've always told you to talk to people more. Who is this friend? And where are you studying?"

"Oh!" Feliciano suddenly cried, and then his face split into a shit-eating grin.

"Feliciano, _shut up._"

"Ve, Lovi, don't be mad!" But Feli was still grinning at him. "Is Toni coming over, then?"

"Toni?" Romulus looked from Lovino to Feliciano. "Is that his name?"

"No, he is not fucking coming over," Lovino snapped, turning, if possible, an even darker shade of red. "Like I'd ever tell that bastard where we live! Besides, between your constant yip-yapping and _nonno's_ lady-friends—"

"Hey!" Romulus whined, but smiled because it was true.

"—It's really hard to study. We're going to the library."

"But that's so boring!"

"And anyway, you should invite your friend over," Romulus said, now smiling. "I'm going to work today, anyway. Saturday afternoon lunch rush! You and Feli and _Toni,_" he said the name with great amusement and care, "Can all study together."

"But—"

Feliciano leaned closer to his brother and whispered in his ear, "Don't worry, Lovi. I won't get in your way."

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?" Lovino shouted, almost tearing his brother's eardrums.

* * *

**A/N: From this point on, I don't think there will be any daily updates. I'll try, I really will, but I don't have any more pre-written chapters left, and quite frankly, I'm too exhausted at the moment to even think of working on this. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe day after. We'll see. College, work and extra-curricular stuff is slowly killing me. And it's only been a week!**

**Sigh. **

**Don't worry, though. I'll update soon, I promise. Maybe even tomorrow, if you're lucky! :) **


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: I wasn't going to update this today, but then, I saw all of your wonderful reviews. And I felt so **_**loved. **_**Seriously, I have the best readers ever. Thank you all so much for understanding my position! Luckily, I had an hour or two to kill, so I decided to write this up. **

**It's got all four pairings featured :D **

**By the way, I'm sorry if the GerIta sucks. My problem is, I'm not used to this pairing. I don't actually ship it. No, before you get your pitchforks, I don't mean that I dislike GermanyxItaly. It's like Spamano, it's a classic pairing. And I don't mind it in stories. But I wouldn't actively read GerIta-centric stories like I read Spamano-centric fics. I prefer to read about other pairings more. That's all. **

* * *

This coffee shop was one of Arthur's favourites. It was run by a sweet middle-aged couple who'd travelled all over the world in their youth and then pooled all their remaining money to run this tiny place. It was decorated with pictures and postcards from at least twenty different countries, played lots of lovely foreign music and served exotic foods.

But Arthur liked it for its homeliness. He loved the rustic décor, the comforting smell of coffee wafting all over the room, mixed with spices and wine. It wasn't very big, or very expensive, and made its money through the huge customer turnout.

This morning, however, it was quiet. There was only two other people in the coffeehouse, and they were too busy making out in a corner booth to really be a nuisance to Arthur.

The Englishman was sitting at his usual spot by the glass doors. It was raining outside, but his attention was fixed on the book in his hands. A collection of Shakespeare plays, and he couldn't decide which one to work on. He only had to learn one stanza—an iconic one, of course—but there were just so many to choose from! And Arthur was aware of most of them, which made his choice harder. He wanted to major in English Literature. If he was ignorant of the Bard's works, making a decision would have been a lot simpler.

He was humming to the tune playing in the speakers he'd heard a hundred times before. Soft piano music. Something Austrian? Oh, who knew! Music had never been Arthur's thing. But it was a pleasant sound. That, along with Shakespeare and a cup of Earl Grey. It was perfection.

"_Mon ami._"

Arthur's head jerked up even before Francis had spoken. He'd felt a shadow loom over his table, and there the Frenchman was. Francis's features looked uncharacteristically soft, gentle, almost, as he quirked his lips upwards.

"Oh, you," Arthur sighed, closing the Shakespeare collection and setting it down on the table. "What do you want now?"

Francis pulled up a chair and sat down, that same look of gentle amusement on his face. "_Comment _ _ça va__?_" he asked, glancing at the book on the table at then looking at Arthur again.

"I don't speak French," the Englishman grumbled, sounding almost weary.

"But it's a basic French sentence."

"So?"

Francis sighed as his finger curled around one of the loose strands of his blonde hair. Arthur never knew why he insisted on pony-tailing his locks. His hair was too feathery, too soft. It would simply fall out of the elastic it was tied in. (Though, Francis was too refined to use hair elastics. Most of the times, he used satin ribbons.)

"I asked you," the Frenchman said, "How are you?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Why do you care? What are you doing here, Frog?"

Once more, Francis sighed. A waiter came to their table, placing a cup of coffee before the Frenchman. He'd even placed his order at Arthur's table, huh? Bloody wanker.

"I walked in to get myself a coffee," Francis explained. "And I saw you, and became a little nostalgic."

The response was enough to make Arthur tense up, and he straightened his shoulders and coughed, embarrassed, before picking up his cup of tea and sipping it, just to create a diversion. "Nostalgic?" he repeated, trying not to make eye-contact with the other blonde teen.

"_Oui. _I was remembering all our childhood games."

"Ah," Arthur said, taking such a large sip of his tea that he scalded his tongue. The drink continued to burn his throat as he swallowed, and he set his cup down, crossing his arms in defence. "We did have a lot of inventive games."

"My favourite was when we fought with our toy swords."

"You always lost."

"But it was good fun," Francis countered, his tone mild and his eyes faraway. "I'm feeling a bit melancholy today," he admitted. "Must be the rain."

"Yes. The rain."

In fifth grade, Arthur had gravitated towards Alfred instead. Neither of them knew how it happened. There was never really a certain 'incident' which stuck out in their heads. Never really a warning. But one day, Francis woke up and realised that his best friend was alien to him. Things had never been the same between them after that. Arthur became snippier towards Francis, and there'd be days when the only interaction the two of them had was through cold, mean remarks.

It was never all-out war, but it wasn't friendship either.

Francis sighed _again. _But he seemed to have decided to change the subject, because he then motioned towards the book on the table and said, "So, what are you going to recite for me on Monday?"

"Oh, I don't know," Arthur replied, more candidly than he'd expected to. "I can't even decide on a play, lot less a stanza."

"Ah. Are you going for something _romantique_? A tragedy? A comedy?" A snaky smile met his lips. "How about _Romeo and Juliet_?"

"Why must it always be romance with you?" the Englishman cried, exasperated. "There are other things in life, you know? Love isn't the only thing that matters!"

Francis gasped. A genuine, scandalised gasp. Arthur half-expected him to start bitching something in a high-pitched female American accent, reminiscent of all those stupid shows Alfred swore he _did not _watch. "Love is everything!" Francis cried. "And not _just _romantic love, but familial love, too. And the love between friends. _Romeo and Juliet _is my favourite play, ever. Because it shows how powerful, and how all-encompassing, love can be. How tragic it can be."

Arthur really shouldn't have picked this particular bone with Francis. The Frenchman had always been a flirt, always. Even as toddlers, he'd always go and talk to the prettiest girl in their play group, trying to make her laugh. And though Francis sure spent a lot of time sleeping around, he took love very seriously. Arthur _knew _this. Two years ago, when Jeanne left him, he'd been absolutely devastated. But Arthur hadn't done much to make him feel better, either. That was simply not how their relationship worked anymore.

It depressed Arthur that he and Francis weren't friends anymore. He wouldn't ever admit this aloud, of course. But he knew—or had known—everything about the Frenchman, at one point of time. He knew that Francis's admiration of the emotion of love came from being the only son to wealthy parents who spent too much time at work (his father) and too much time at parties (his mother). As a child, the Frenchman had received every luxury, except parental love.

"_Mon ami? _You've been silent for a long time."

"Hmm?" Arthur responded, glancing away from the Shakespeare book and looking at his once-friend. "Pardon me. I was thinking about something." Taking a sip of his now lukewarm tea, Arthur asked, "Why do you think we lie to ourselves?"

"Where did that come from?"

_It came from me wanting to rekindle our friendship but never admitting it to anyone. Not even myself, usually. _

"Shakespeare makes you think," Arthur replied, offering a smile.

Francis rolled his eyes. "Is the rain getting to you too, Arthur?"

"It must be. I'm feeling melancholy as well."

The Frenchman laughed. It was short, comfortable. Not particularly friendly, but calming, all the same. "Ah…it is as the Bard says, _non_?"

"What do you mean?" Arthur cocked his head to one side.

"What was that line…_all the world's a stage, and men and women merely players._ We all play a part. A miserably small part, and sometimes, we are not happy with our roles. So we lie. And we lie to cover our lies. And the only way to get out of that vicious circle is to break character and do something we would otherwise never do. Face the truth."

"Well…wow." Arthur sat back against his chair, looking at Francis with new eyes. "That was…impressive, actually."

"You think so? _Merci!_"

"A little out of context, though." Arthur flipped open the Shakespeare book and found the stanza. "Here it is. Your explanation. It's a bit out of context. The actual monologue is: _all the world's a stage, and men and women merely players. __They have their exits and their entrances, __and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages."_

Francis watched as Arthur read out the lines. The contours of his lips as he spoke, the heavy English accent. His eyebrows had always fascinated Francis, because they didn't even look real. But they somehow suited the Briton's face. It was a special thing. He'd never known anyone else on which large, busy eyebrows looked good.

"…_At first the infant, mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then, the whining school-boy with his satchel __and shining morning face, creeping like a snail__, u__nwillingly to school._"

As children, they'd met in playschool. Francis had been finger-painting, and Arthur had tripped and fallen all over Francis's masterpiece. They'd had a short argument that started with 'You fell on my painting!' and ended them squirting water pistols at each other and collapsing in laughter.

When they entered school, Francis quickly befriended Antonio and Gilbert, neither of whom really got along with Arthur. That didn't mean they minded Francis hanging out with him, though. The only problem was, Arthur himself had latched on to Alfred Jones, and as the years passed, Francis hung out with Arthur less and less.

"…_And then the lover, __sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad __made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier, __full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, __jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel, __seeking the bubble reputation__, __even in the cannon's mouth_."

Arthur's voice modulation was quite impressive, Francis noted. Shakespeare's monologues depended on catching and holding on to a rhythm, speaking in powerful tones and delivering emotion through every uttered syllable. Arthur was doing just that.

"…_And then, the justice, in fair round belly, with a good capon lin'd, with eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, __full of wise saws, and modern instances, a__nd so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts i__nto the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, with spectacles on nose and pouch on side, his youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide f__or his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, turning again toward childish treble, pipes a__nd whistles in his sound._"

Francis missed Arthur. The realisation came to him as a shock, an epiphany. It made him take a soft intake of air through his mouth as he sat up slightly, gaping in wonder at the blonde teen sitting before him.

"…_Last scene of all,_" Arthur recited, his tone becoming sonorous and climatic, "_That ends this strange eventful history_"—Francis unintentionally leaned forward, pulled by the force of the Briton's voice—"_Is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything._"

Arthur still stared at the book before him for several seconds after he finished speaking, and Francis found his hands shaking, his heart beating wildly inside his chest. The Englishman finally looked up, as though breaking out of a daze.

"S-so you see," he spluttered, "That's why your explanation is out of context. Because Shakespeare's talking about the seven stages of aging. The seven stages of life. And you're just…you're just taking the first two lines and interpreting them in your own way. You get it? Stupid Frog."

"Arthur," Francis said, looking at him very seriously, "Would you like to be part of the drama club?"

"W-what?"

"You just performed _All the World's a Stage _by William Shakespeare, and you did it flawlessly. Sure, you read from the book, but your voice, your _voice, _Arthur…" Francis couldn't believe what he was doing. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Opening them once more, he said, "I would be honoured…and the drama club would benefit enormously…if you joined."

Arthur swallowed. And then his ears went pink. "Oh. Um. Thanks, Francis. Yes, I'd love to join."

* * *

Ludwig opened the door after the doorbell rang five times in rapid succession. In fact, the ruckus had made the German jump to his feet and tear down the staircase. Who on earth could it possibly be? Ringing the bell like that…it was so rude.

"_Ja, ja, _calm down, I'm coming!" he called as he raced to the door, His parents were taking an afternoon snooze. This insane doorbell ringing would wake them up! His hand clenched around the knob and he turned it, expecting to find someone in some state of serious emergency.

Well, he did. Sort of.

Kiku was standing at the door, an umbrella over his head, looking extremely irate—well, about as irate as he could look—with Feliciano _hanging off his neck, _sobbing loudly into the Japanese teen's shoulder.

"What—"

"He is crying," Kiku said, as though this was somehow not apparent. "And it has something to do with you. Prease sort it out. I was dragged out of my date with Heracres because of him."

"Luddy!" Feliciano wept as he left Kiku and threw himself on the German.

It was easy to wrap his arms around Feliciano's small frame, and that was exactly what Ludwig did. The Italian was not just inconsolable, but incomprehensible. He was speaking rapidly in his own language, and even if Ludwig made an attempt to understand a word, he just couldn't. Feliciano was speaking too quickly, and what he was saying was being muffled and drowned out by the roar of the rain and his thick, teary voice.

So, Ludwig gave up trying to calm Feli down, and looked at Kiku instead, who was still standing outside, under the rain, looking deadpan and annoyed.

"What happened?"

"I do not know. He is upset, and he mentioned your name."

_Verdammt, what did I do? _"I see," Ludwig said, resolute to not lose his composure. With a sobbing Feli and an irate Kiku, _somebody _had to remain calm, right? "Kiku, why don't you come inside? You'll catch a chill."

"Thank you, but I must decrine. I reft Heracres waiting at the restaurant."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry about that. Thank you for bringing Feliciano here, though. I appreciate it."

Kiku nodded once. "He is my friend too." Giving Ludwig a stern look, he added, "Prease aporogise to him for whatever you did."

"_Ja, _I'll sort this out."

After Kiku left, Ludwig pulled Feliciano to the couch. The Italian was still crying, but it had now reduced to soft sniffles. The German sat beside him, turning his body to face the other male. "Feliciano? Feliciano, look at me. Calm down. Please stop crying, Feli. Stop it, you're making me worry, now."

It still took a few more minutes for the Italian to stop his tears. His eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks wet. Ludwig handed him a tissue. The Italian took it, wiped his face and blew his nose.

"What did I do, Feli?" Ludwig asked, placing a hand on the other's elbow. "Feli?"

"Do you hate me?" Feliciano blurted out.

Ludwig froze. "No!" The vehemence with which Ludwig had cried out the word make Feliciano jump. Internally cursing himself, the German repeated, in a softer voice, "No, Feli. I could _never _hate you. Why would you even think that?"

"You've been avoiding me!" Feliciano complained. "You even cancelled our movie plans! What did I do? Did I say something that hurt your feelings? I didn't mean to, Luddy! I really didn't, I promise."

"You could never—" but then the German broke off, thinking back to that day when he'd heard Feli tell his brother that he'd never date Ludwig. Swallowing—and using more effort than necessary—Ludwig said, "You didn't say anything that hurt my feelings. Don't worry, Feli. I was just keeping my distance because,"_ It was too awkward to speak to you without blushing, _"Because I wasn't feeling very well, and I didn't want you to worry."

_You always worry about me when I get sick, and I find that a little ridiculous. Because, Feliciano, I like to be the one looking after you. It makes me happy, even though you can be such an annoying pain in the neck. Verdammt, Feli, I'm trying NOT to fall in love with you. Why are you making this so difficult? Looking at me with those big amber eyes like that. I wish we could just be FRIENDS. But I don't think we can. Because I think I might have feelings for you. Damn it, Feliciano. _

"Oh," Feli said, completely oblivious to the German's inner turmoil. "Do you feel better now?" And with that, he put a hand on Ludwig's forehead.

"_Ja, _fine." Brushing away the concern—which wasn't actually necessary—the German listened as Feliciano began to talk.

"So, you don't hate me?"

"Of course not!"

"Oh. Thank goodness." His shoulders slumped as he relaxed, sitting back against the couch. "Lovi told me to just kick you in the nuts if you did, and I didn't want to do that."

"Well…that's good." _Typical Lovino. _

"Anyway!" Feliciano chirped, sitting up. His face was bright and happy again, as though he hadn't been sobbing his heart out only minutes before. "I still have the movie tickets, if you're feeling better. Would you like to go? I can't go home, because Lovi and Antonio are…_studying_…"

Ludwig raised an eyebrow at Feli's tone. The Italian just grinned in response. The German shook his head in exasperation. The reason he'd cancelled with Feli was because it was so AWKWARD. Feliciano wasn't interested in him romantically—he'd _said so _to Lovino. _Mien Gott, this is so frustrating. But…_

"Alright." Standing up, Ludwig walked towards the coat-rack and umbrella stand. "Let's go watch that movie."

* * *

This was _not _going as Lovino had planned.

He was supposed to be _tutoring_ the Tomato Bastard, dammit. Not…not…not watching _Godfather _with him.

Well, okay, it didn't start out that way. In fact, it had been going quite well. The Tomato Bastard—Lovino was really starting to like that nickname—was a pretty decent student when he put his mind to it. Also, Lovino was a good teacher. Feliciano had stepped out of the house just as Antonio was entering it. As he was leaving, his _fratello _had given Lovino a conspiratorial wink that made the elder Vargas want to throw a hammer at his head.

"Alright, bastard, take out your books, sit at the table and shut the fuck up while I explain this shit to you."

"If that dialogue were in a movie, I'd quote it," Antonio said in response, grinning happily at the Italian as he pulled out a notebook and pen from his bag. Lovino didn't deign to respond.

They'd been making good progress. Antonio asked all the right questions, and cottoned on to concepts and ideas fairly quickly. He was especially bad with balancing equations, though. And dammit, he _whined and whined _about it for several minutes, intermittently banging his head on the table or pulling his hair dramatically.

"It's _not _that difficult," Lovino had said, for what felt like the hundredth time. "If there are three molecules of water on the left side of the equation, there have to be three on the right. It's not going to fucking vanish into oblivion just because a chemical reaction happened."

"You're so smart, _mi tomate,_" Antonio mumbled, sounding a combination of sulky and proud.

"I am NOT a fucking tomato!"

"Your face is as red as one."

"I will cut you."

Anyway, that passed. But as the hours ticked by, Lovino could tell that Antonio's concentration was slipping. He was becoming quieter and quieter, and whenever he spoke, it was always to make some inane comment about tomatoes or the colour of Lovino's face.

"Lovi," he said finally, "Can we take a break?"

"No, we can't. Shut up."

"But I'm _borrrred._"

"YOU were the one begging for me to tutor you. Do you think I sit around, wasting my Saturdays on dumb bastards like you? Don't you think I have better things to do in life? But hey, I decide to sacrifice a weekend to make sure you fucking pass in the Chem test on Monday, and this is how you show your gratitude? Really? Really?"

Antonio groaned at the end of the rant, burying his head in the textbook. "We've been studying for three hours without a break."

This was not a big deal for Lovino. He _had _to put in the effort to get the same grades as Feliciano did. He often studied late into the night, every night. If he didn't, he'd end up failing every class. The words on the page could confuse him, too.

Antonio noticed this. He sat up suddenly, and said, "Lovi, can I ask you a personal question?"

"No, you fucking can't. Now can we just focus on chemistry?"

"Are you dyslexic?"

The question absolutely _shocked _the Italian. The pen in his hand slipped from his grasp and his jaw slackened. He blinked at Antonio stupidly for several seconds, before saying, "Am I…what?"

"Dyslexic," Antonio repeated, not a trace of humour on his face. "This is the third time you've mixed up B and D. And your handwriting is a bit messy…" Antonio, finally noticing the look on Lovino's face, quickly added, "Not that there's anything wrong with that! My mother's dyslexic! You don't have to feel bad—"

"Yes," Lovino said quietly. "I am. Grandpa doesn't believe me, though. The school counselor had me tested in third grade, but Grandpa doesn't believe in learning disabilities; he says it's just laziness." Pausing, the Italian added, "Anyway, I can deal with it now. It's not too bad." His face turning red again, Lovino finished, "I make stupid mistakes sometimes, like with the Bs and Ds. But it _doesn't _happen that often, okay? And I don't need your pity, either, so don't give me that look. Yes, I am dyslexic. Can we please just focus on chemistry now?"

"…Okay," the Tomato Bastard said, his voice surprisingly quiet. Pointing at a paragraph in his book, he asked, "Can you explain this bit to me again?"

Lovino relaxed into the repetitive doldrums of chemical equations. He didn't know why he just told Antonio about something as intimate and personal as his struggle with dyslexia, but he'd found it tremendously stressful. He barely even told Feliciano about these things, although Feli had once found him curled up in a ball, weeping into his pillow, once. The books had been thrown across the wall in frustration.

That had been a _long _time ago. Shaking himself out of the memory, he sunk his teeth into the dry symbols of metals and non-metals.

Half an hour later, Antonio was bored again. "Lovi, can we _please _take a break? I can't think anymore! And I'm hungry!"

Lovino looked up, suddenly realising that he was hungry too. He checked the time on his phone; it was almost two in the afternoon. The Italian pushed his chair back, stood and stretched. "Pasta for lunch, extra tomatoes, and I don't give a shit if you have a problem with that."

"That sounds delicious! Did you make it yourself?"

Lovino opened the fridge and took out a large bowl of macaroni in tomato sauce. "Who else would make it?" he asked. "Feliciano?"

"Well, maybe," Antonio admitted. "But it's so cool that you can cook!"

"Why would Feliciano make lunch?" Lovino snapped. "Why?" he added, his tone acerbic, "Did you want him to? I can cook just as well as he can! Even better, dammit!"

"Lovi!" Antonio jumped up and approached him. "I didn't mean it that way." His emerald eyes were swimming with concern. "I know it's going to taste _delicioso_!"

"Whatever." Lovino shoved the bowl in the microwave. "Go check out what's on TV. Make yourself useful."

Antonio squealed something in Spanish that Lovino assumed was just general cheerful chatter as he left the kitchen and went to the living room. What a moron, honestly. Lovino could hear him switching on the TV and flipping through the channels. In the kitchen, the microwave beeped, signalling the end of the heating cycle.

Putting generous helpings of pasta on two plates, Lovino proceeded to cut a few tomato slices. He liked tomatoes with everything he ate, of course, and Antonio never shut up about Churro the Tomato Plant, so Lovino went with the assumption that the Spaniard liked the fruit as well. Plus, hadn't he mentioned something along those lines a few days ago…?

They were firm Roma tomatoes. Crisp and cold.

"Lovi, there's nothing to watch!" Antonio called from the living room.

"FIFA re-runs?"

"NO," Antonio shouted back. "Spain's out of the world cup. _No._"

Lovino snickered softly. He'd expected a reaction like that. "Alright, bastard," the Italian replied from the kitchen as he uncorked a bottle of wine and took out two glasses. "We can watch a movie. Check in the cabinet under the TV."

A few minutes of silence as Antonio presumably went through the DVD collection. Finally, the Spaniard asked, "What do _you _want to watch, Lovi?"

By now, Lovino was trying to balance two full plates of food and two glasses of wine in one large tray to bring to the living room. It was really risky, but Lovino worked as a waiter; there was nothing he couldn't handle.

"We'll watch _The Godfather. _And come and help me, you lazy bastard!"

It was a few minutes before the two of them could sit on the couch with the food on the coffee table as Lovino slipped the DVD in. Antonio was curious about their choice of beverage.

"Why wine?" he asked, taking a sip of the drink.

"Shit, don't tell me you drink beer, like those Potato Bastards."

Antonio laughed. "Wine's good for me, Lovi. I was just asking because it's the middle of the day."

Lovino, still fiddling around with the DVD player, turned around to give the Spanish idiot a calculated smirk. "If you don't want it, I'll have it. _Nonno _doesn't have a problem with us drinking his wine, so why are you throwing such a fuss?" Really, though. Lovino couldn't imagine Saturday lunch without his favourite drink. What was the big deal?

Antonio laughed again. "It's a date drink, you know."

That's when the Italian turned violently red and hurled profanities—as usual. "Stupid bastard," the Italian snapped, finishing his stream of curses before settling down on the couch beside Antonio. The movie began to play.

They watched and they ate. And Antonio was fascinated. Lovino's lips—pink, supple—softly mouthed the lines. He'd obviously seen this movie hundreds of times before, but he leaned towards the screen eagerly as Don Corleone spoke.

"_Bonasera, Bonasera," _the Godfather drawled, and Lovino's lips moved in time with the words. Synching. _"What have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully? If you'd come to me in friendship, then this scum that wounded your daughter would be suffering this very day_._"_

"And if by chance an honest man like yourself should make enemies, then they would become my enemies. And then they would fear you," Lovino finished along with the characters on the screen.

Antonio grinned before he could even stop himself.

Lovino whipped around and smacked him at the back of the head. "Shut up, Tomato Bastard. This is _The Godfather. _I'm going to fucking quote the lines."

"You're just so cute."

"Shut up and drink your wine. Ooh—" he cried, and went right back to the TV screen.

Chemistry forgotten, the two boys watched and watched with rapt attention. Lovino was constantly at the edge of his seat, spouting dialogue and giving commentary. Outside, the rain finally let up. The afternoon was whizzing by. But Antonio was really enjoying himself. For the first time in ages, he was really feeling happy.

"Kay, don't ask me about my business!" Lovino yelled at the screen.

Antonio was sure his ribs were cracking with the effort of holding back a laugh. By now, Lovino was just plain ignoring him. The rest of the scene played out, the end credits appeared, and finally, the Italian switched the TV off and fell back against the couch.

"Don Corleone," Lovino sighed, his tone filled with admiration.

"You really like this movie, don't you?"

"He's my idol!"

"A Mafia Don is your idol, Lovi?"

"Yes, so don't fucking piss me off."

This time, Antonio couldn't stop is laughter.

* * *

Francis was drained.

He'd had a rather emotional day. Running into Arthur in the morning just shocked his system a little. The Frenchman had been feeling a little down. His friends' problems were weighing on him. Antonio, of course, hadn't attended a single music class all week except for that one time on the first day of school. While he had seemed more cheerful over the last few days, Francis had known the Spaniard long enough to notice that Antonio was still in very real pain.

It reminded him of his romance with Jeanne. It had been wild and powerful, sweeping Francis away like a strong current. But then, her family moved away, and though they'd tried to keep the relationship going, they just couldn't. And Francis had been inconsolable. Jeanne had been his whole world.

And then there was Gilbert. The poor Prussian had been trying to get through to Mathieu without any success. Francis couldn't stand seeing his friends like this. A depressed Antonio, a morose Gilbert? It was enough to make anybody's head spin.

There was nothing Francis could do for Antonio at the moment. The Spaniard would simply have to ride the storm and come out alive. But Gilbert? Well, Francis was about to solve his problem right now.

The Jones-William's house stood over him. Francis hesitated for a moment before ringing the doorbell. Alfred opened it.

"One of Gil's friends," the American spat, "Why? He too scared to come here on his own?"

"He doesn't know I'm here, actually. I had to speak to Mathieu."

"He doesn't want to see you."

"It's not about Gilbert. Believe it or not, I have better things to do in life." _I really don't, though, do I? _

Alfred regarded Francis with extreme suspicion. But before he could even say anything, Mathieu's voice was heard, saying, "Alfred, where did you put my iPod?" Without warning, the Canadian had appeared at the door. His eyes widened when he saw Francis.

"_Bonjour, Mathieu._" With the Canadian, Francis always spoke French.

"As I was telling Francis," Alfred began coolly, "You don't want to speak to him."

"Uh…" Mathieu said, "No, it's okay. Go on, Al. It's fine."

Francis had been banking on this. He and Mathieu had always got along well. Alfred didn't seem to happy about it, so he threw Francis a fearsome glare before saying, "Mattie, if he bothers you, just tell me."

"Al, please," Mathieu sighed.

"Fine," the American snapped. "Fine." With that, he walked away.

There was a short, awkward, silence.

Then, the two started conversing in French.

"What's up, Francis? Did Gilbert send you here?"

"No. He's not a coward, Mathieu, and you know that."

"Yes…that's what I thought. So, why are you here?"

"You know about Ivan and Gilbert's past, right?"

"Yes. Gilbert's told me about it. Ivan's has as well."

"Oh. I don't know what the deal is with you and Ivan."

"Frankly, it's none of your business."

The Frenchman put his hands up as a sign of peace. "I won't pry. I just wanted to let you know that your boyfriend is a complete mess, and I hate seeing him like that. Can you at least call him? I know you're angry at him, Mathieu, and you have every right to be. But don't leave him hanging. That's just cruel."

An uncharacteristic look of annoyance passed over the Canadian's face. "Are you done?"

Francis ran a hand through the stray locks of his hair. "…Yes. That's all I wanted to say."

"Okay. Thank you." Glancing up at the slowly darkening sky, Mathieu said, "It's getting late, and it looks like it might rain again. You should get going."

Francis knew he was getting dismissed.

"Good night, Mathieu."

"Good night." The Canadian quietly closed the door.

* * *

"_Hello?"_

"Birdie!" Gilbert almost shouted into his phone. "Birdie! Matthew, I am SO sorry about the other day. I don't know what came over me, I just—"

"_Gil, hey, Gil, it's okay. I'm sorry too. I overreacted. I'm not angry at you anymore, okay? I just needed some time to cool off."_

"Oh, thank god! I swear I won't lose my head like that ever again. Can we please start talking, Birdie? I really miss you. It's driving me crazy."

"_Yes, Gilly. Of course we can. I love you."_

"I love you too! I love you so much."

"_Listen, Gil, Ivan is my friend. We got talking shortly before I left for Hawaii over the summer. And he means a lot to me. You have to understand that."_

Gilbert swallowed. "I-I'll try."

"_I want you to get to know him better."_

"Birdie…"

"_Gilbert…please."_

The Prussian took a deep breath. Anything for Matthew. "Okay. Yes. I'll get to know him better. I'll try, anyway."

"_A little effort on your part. That's all I ask. Thank you so much, Gilbert. This means a lot to me."_

"If it makes you happy, it's worth it."

"_You're a sweetheart. Ivan and I are going to play hockey tomorrow morning. Do you want to join us?"_

"…I'll join you."

"_Thank you. Thank you so much. Je t'aime."_

"Ich liebe dich, Birdie."

"_Well, I have to go now. See you tomorrow?"_

"See you. Good night!"

"_Good night!"_

* * *

"Come on, Antonio, just a few more pages."

"We shouldn't have watched a full movie."

"Yeah, in hindsight, that was a bad idea."

They were sitting at the table again, with Antonio rubbing his eyes in boredom and sleep, as Lovino pored over the last few subtopics in the book. Just a few more, and they'd both be done. The stupid bastard might just pass the test on Monday.

"Can't we do it tomorrow?" he whined. "We've studied a lot today!"

"Asshat," Lovino growled, "Shut up and concentrate. It'll take half an hour, at the most. And Feli and Grandpa will probably be back soon, and I want to get done before they're here." _Because if they walk in while you're still in the house, I'm fucking done for. It's going to be mortifying. _

"I haven't even taken a siesta today," Antonio complained.

"Neither have I. Suck it up."

"Can we go for a walk? It's so nice outside! The rain's finally stopped, so it's all post-rainy-coolness-with-the-smell-of-wet-mud."

Lovino blinked at the green-eyed moron.

"Are you fucking stupid? Wait, don't answer that. You are. Just _focus, _Tomato Bastard. You're behaving like a child."

The Spaniard pouted.

Lovino sighed. "Half an hour, okay? We'll finish in half an hour, and then we can go out for a walk, if you want." Really, the Italian felt like he was talking to a three-year-old. Nevertheless, Antonio seemed to accept this compromise, because he picked up his pen and stared expectantly at the Chemistry book, as though waiting for it to burst into a tap dance.

Even Lovino was getting a little bored. Despite the movie, they'd managed to cover a lot of ground today. So he hurried over it, not going into gory details like he'd done before. Antonio noticed this, and clearly appreciated it, by the look of relief and surprise on his face. And when half an hour passed, Lovino was the first to close the books.

"Let's go," he said.

Antonio jumped to his feet, hastily shoving everything into his bag. "Thank you so much, Lovi! You've been amazing today. I might actually pass the test."

"Yeah. You owe me one."

They stepped out of the house, the cold evening air hitting their skin. The sky was purple and cloudy, making Lovino wish he'd at least carried a jacket, if not an umbrella. Antonio didn't seem to notice. He chattered on, with Lovino making small, biting comments wherever possible.

A week ago, Lovino would never have believed it to be true. There was just no way it could have been possible.

But looking at Antonio now, the Italian realised he'd made a friend.

* * *

**A/N: A dyslexic Lovino, because I CAN. Also, Lovino likes _The Godfather; _my attempt at adding Mafia!Romano to a Gakuen fic xD **

**Also, I have a headcanon that whenever they're speaking with each other, Francis and Matthew speak in French. Also, Francis says "Mathieu" and not "Matthew". **

**Anyway, a looooong chapter for you, lovelies. Thanks for being such epic reviewers. I'll try to update tomorrow. I'll try. Don't keep your hopes up. **

**Until next time! :D **


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Eighteen chapters already?! Wow. **

**This chapter has got LOTS of Spamano, by the way. :P**

* * *

Antonio's brown jacket—the one he wore all the time—slipped off his shoulders, and the teen wordlessly handed it to Lovino. The Italian's golden eyes widened slightly. What was going on here? Sure, there was a definite nip in the air, but that was to be expected after a full day of rain.

"You look like an ice popsicle," Antonio laughed. "Put it on."

"I don't!" the Italian whined, denying the fact that he was freezing through his clothes. "Stop being so annoying, bastard."

"Lovi, you could catch a chill!"

The shorter of the two snatched the jacket. "Fine. I'm wearing it to make you shut up." It was a little big around the shoulders, and the sleeves ended halfway up Lovino's palms, but the jacket was warm, and smelled like cologne and tomatoes.

Antonio laughed again, but didn't say anything. They walked in companionable silence, Lovino with his hands inside Antonio's jacket pockets, Antonio humming a Spanish song softly. Night had fallen. It was an unusually quiet evening, but Lovino liked the effect of streetlights illuminating the sheet of water on the ground.

The Italian wasn't sure where they were going, but didn't ask. Antonio walked without purpose, ambling, like he'd done it a hundred times before. His green eyes, Lovino noticed in the unsatisfying light from the lampposts, were relaxed again. A placid smile came on his lips—not his usual blinding grins, but an expression of simple contentment.

Lovino constantly felt like Antonio was hiding a side of him. A side where those cheerful beams were nonexistent. A side where his laughing green eyes were still and quiet. Despite all of his outward happiness, Antonio always seemed…a little sad. A small part of his natural joy always appeared false. He always seemed a little tense.

But that wasn't the case now. Antonio looked completely relaxed. Completely in his element.

The Spaniard suddenly stopped. Lovino could hear a soft splash. Antonio had stepped into a puddle, and the dirty water began seeping into his sneakers. Then, the Italian noticed the change. The Spaniard looked stricken, and then a panicked expression came upon his features. His eyes widened as he looked around. It was like he was finally registering his surroundings.

Lovino felt his stomach plummet. Fuck, was he having a repeat of that depression episode thing? Antonio couldn't be! It was too scary.

"Bastard…oi, bastard, what's wrong?"

"I-I-I-" Antonio jerked his head about some more, turning his full body to his right. His eyes widened in apparent terror as he stared at the yellow glow coming from someone's house window. Why was this such a big deal? They were in a residential area. There were tens and tens of houses all over the place.

"Can you tell me what the damn problem is?" Lovino snapped, masking his concern with anger.

"Lovino…" Antonio said, and the Italian noticed how the Spaniard had used his full name. "C-Can we go? I wasn't thinking, I just walked here as a force of habit, I-" He broke off again, his fists balled. "That's Roderich's house, and Elizabeta's bike."

The Italian noticed the bicycle propped against the fence.

"Right. Okay, calm down, _bastardo. _We can go."

Antonio wasn't listening. He stood ramrod straight, rigid. There was that look again. Antonio was breathing in short gasps, his widened eyes were darting about, like he was seeing things that Lovino couldn't. A horror movie, perhaps.

"Antonio," the Italian said, trying not to show his panic. "Antonio, come on." With that, Lovino took hold of the Spaniard's hand. "Please, come on. We crossed that park, before, right? Let's go sit there."

He didn't budge. Lovino had to tug on his hand, speaking quickly in Italian, before Antonio finally stirred, allowing himself to be pulled along.

* * *

The park bench was wet, but Lovino didn't care, for once. He tried to wipe off the water with his hands, but when that didn't work, simply contented himself with the fact that it was too dark to notice water stains on his behind.

After Antonio stopped talking, a silence fell between them.

"…Have you ever felt like you belonged somewhere? With someone? And then, without warning, it gets taken away? That's how I feel. Like I've been left behind." Antonio sighed, running a hand through his hair. He'd calmed down now, which was a relief. "Roderich was…I loved him. I _love _him, present tense. And I shouldn't, because he's such an asshole."

"And these random blank-outs?" Lovino tilted his head towards Antonio. "What the fuck are those about?"

"That used to happen to me _ages _ago. After my dad walked out on us. I still remember the day. My mother was out shopping, and my father asked me to help him pack a suitcase. And I didn't know…I was too young to understand. And there'd been no warning! My parents never argued. I had no idea how unhappy they were. And I loved helping my father, so I was so happy when he asked me to pack his bag for him." Antonio took a shaky breath, looking into the quiet darkness of the park. "And then, he put the bag in the car and drove off. Leaving me all alone. That's when I finally understood what had happened."

"Oh," Lovino said. "That makes sense."

"Hmm?" Antonio glanced at the Italian. "What does?"

"These depression episodes, I mean. You feel betrayed by the piano playing bastard, and that's somehow compounded by a childhood fear of abandonment." Lovino nodded. "I bet that's it." At Antonio's expression, the Italian added, "Have you tried seeing a doctor?"

"Therapy?" Antonio asked. "How rich do you think I am?" It was asked as a good-natured question, and the Spaniard even managed a smile, but Lovino felt himself cringe. He hadn't meant to make it sound so wrong."It's fine," Antonio said, lightly touching the Italian's elbow. "It'll pass. See, the episode today wasn't as bad as the one before! Roderich's a bastard, that's all. I'll get over it."

Lovino 'hmmed'. How had this post-chemistry-tutoring-walk turned into such a feels trip? Shaking his head slightly, he said, "You shouldn't keep skipping your music class, just because your ex-boyfriend still goes there. You're sending the wrong message, if you do."

"Not you too," Antonio snapped, crossing his arms and sitting back against the park bench. "Gil and Franny want me to go to music class as well, but it's awkward. I hate it there. There's no-one to talk to, and Roderich…I can't focus on anyone else."

"But—"

"Lovi, let it be." Antonio's voice had become suddenly serious. The Italian had never seen this side of the Spaniard. He hadn't even known of its existence. Not that Lovino could really tell in the poor lighting, but he was sure Antonio's eyes had become hard and cold.

"Fine, bastard. Do what you want."

They fell silent again. But Antonio was quick to break it.

"What does your name mean, Lovi? Wait, let me try to guess! _Lo-vi-no. _Vino? Like wine? Hey, that would be so cool, if your name meant 'Wine'."

The Italian snorted. "Nice try."

"Really?"

The Italian took a deep breath. "Lovino…means…_to ruin._"

"What?" Antonio looked horrified. Disgusted. "Why would anybody name their kid something that awful?"

Lovino shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"That's just _sick, _Lovi. You couldn't ruin anything, not even if you tried. You're too perfect!"

What.

"Perfect?" Lovino repeated. "You think I'm perfect?" When Antonio vehemently nodded, the Italian blinked in abject confusion. "You have a really weird idea of perfection, Tomato Bastard. I'm a complete screw up."

"You're not. Don't say things like that."

Lovino didn't like where this conversation was headed. It was happening too soon. It was all very overwhelming. He didn't want to believe what Antonio was saying. People always lied to him. People always hated him. His own _mother…_

"Actually, I wasn't born as Lovino," the Italian spoke, willing to tell the Spaniard a personal story, just to change the topic. "When Feli and I were born, we were called Romano—that was me—and Veneziano. But our mother had Postpartum depression. And I was a really, really, _really _cranky kid. So the bitch renamed me. _Lovino, _to ruin. Veneziano—quiet, cute, well-behaved Veneziano—became _Feliciano, _which means _happy, lucky, fortunate._" The Italian laughed, but it was mirthless. Just sarcastic and angry. "But after only a couple of months, she dumped us on Grandpa's doorstep and vanished. He hasn't spoken to her since. I don't even know where she is, or if she's even alive."

"Romano," Antonio said, testing the name on his tongue.

"Grandpa always told me that to him, I was not _Lovino, to ruin, _but _Lovino, the wine._ So, you're right, actually. That's another meaning of my name. The Wine. Can you believe it?"

"I like that. Lovino, the Wine. I wish I was named after my favourite drink. Think about it, if you get really drunk, nobody would complain. Because it's in the name! Wine!"

"_Mio dio, _shut up," Lovino rolled his eyes, but couldn't stop a smile. It was impossibly small, but there, nonetheless.

Antonio laughed. "Would you like me to call you Romano or Lovino?"

"Does it matter? You'll just shorten it to Roma or Lovi either way."

"Well…that's true."

"But if you really want to know, I like the name Lovino." Shrugging, the Italian said, "I like wine."

Antonio's eyes sparkled. His tone soft, he promised, "And you couldn't ruin anything. Like I said, Lovi, you're just too perfect."

The Italian blushed.

"S-shut up! Stupid Tomato Bastard."

* * *

_This is balls, _Lovino thought fiercely. To begin with, the two of them had lost track of time. They sat on that stupid fucking park bench and chatted aimlessly for god knows how long, and now it was dinnertime. Grandpa would probably be home. Feliciano would _definitely _be home. But could he just get rid of Antonio by asking the Spaniard to leave? No.

Why?

"I _cannot _believe you forgot your phone at my house," Lovino grumbled. "I thought you packed your bag properly before we went on this stupid walk!"

"_Lo siento!_" Antonio whined for the tenth time. "It just slipped my mind. I'm sure I left it on the dining table."

"Can't I just give it to you on Monday?" Lovino begged. Because if they walked into the Vargas house now, Feliciano would not stop giggling and _nonno _would invite Antonio to have dinner with them, and Lovino would die of embarrassment.

"My mother's travelling, and I'm home alone. She likes to call and check on me, and panics when I don't answer. I remember that one time I was in the bathroom when the phone rang, and—"

"Okay, okay. No stupid anecdotes. Let's get your goddamn phone."

Lovino was fucked.

* * *

"Aw, shit," the Italian muttered softly as he saw his grandfather's sedan parked in the driveway. Antonio didn't notice. He seemed to take Lovino's swearing in his stride. It would have been comical if the Italian wasn't completely dreading the prospect of entering his house.

Lovino turned the key in the lock and the door opened with a click.

They entered.

His grandfather was standing in the living room, looking at the screen of his phone, and Feliciano sat on the couch, watching some National Geographic show on Renaissance paintings. Both of them looked up as Lovino and Antonio entered the house.

Feliciano shot his brother the widest grin ever.

"_There _you are!" his grandfather exclaimed. "I was just going to call you. It's dinnertime!" Finally noticing Antonio there, he added, "Oh, is this your friend? Toni, right?" He stepped forward to shake the Spanish teen's hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Romulus Vargas."

"Antonio Carriedo. The pleasure is mine, sir!"

"Toni!" Feli cheered. "Hi! How are you, ve?" Jumping off the couch, he ran over and embraced the Spaniard. Antonio looked momentarily startled, but slid comfortably into the hug. The younger Vargas only pulled away after he heard Lovino clear his throat.

In Italian, Lovino asked, "_Che cazzo è che, fratello?_" _What the fuck was that, brother?_

_"Mi dispiace! Dovrei non farlo? Non geloso, Lovi! Lui è solo un mio amico, niente di più." Sorry! Should I not do that? Don't get jealous, Lovi! He's only my friend, nothing more._

Lovino turned violently red. Tomato red, as Antonio would probably say. "_Zitto! Non è così!" Shut up, it's not like that!_

"Lovi, your face has gone all red, like a little _tomate._ Are you okay?"

Meanwhile, Lovino's grandfather was not even trying to hide his laughter. "You boys are so funny," he said through his chortling. "Antonio, why don't you stay for dinner? Feli can make us some pasta. Or maybe you'd like pizza?"

The Spaniard smiled, but shook his head. "I wouldn't want to impose myself."

"Nonsense!" Feliciano cried. "You should stay for dinner, Toni. We'd like that! Lovi especially!"

"SHUT UP, FELICIANO."

What Feliciano found interesting was that Antonio never seemed to get fazed by his brother's constant bad temper. The Spaniard merely petted Lovi's shoulder, making his _fratello _go an even darker shade of red.

"I don't really—" Antonio began, but _nonno _cut him off.

"We won't take no for an answer."

"He just needs to take his phone…" Lovino complained, but by this point, nobody was really paying him any attention. Their grandfather had already directed Antonio to the couch, with Feliciano jumping to the kitchen, chattering on about pizza. Lovino was such a shocking colour of red that he was probably on the verge of getting an aneurism.

Antonio, of course, was blissfully oblivious to any of this nonsense.

"As long as it's okay with you guys…" he said. "I'd love to stay for dinner."

"_Si, si, _you're our guest! You can stay for as long as you like!"

Lovino. Was. Fucked.

* * *

Feliciano put the pasta to boil. His original plan had been to just make some penne in pesto sauce, but now that Lovi's 'friend' was here, he wanted to do something special. So, he'd settled on a pizza-pasta combination. There was still some leftover pizza sauce from last night's dinner, so it wouldn't even be that difficult to make.

He hummed to himself as he took out some tomatoes from the fridge. Extra tomatoes, specially for Lovi. And Antonio liked the fruit as well! It was so nice that Lovi was finally hanging out with people. He usually seemed like such a grumpy guts. It scared away even the best of them. Antonio seemed quite unconcerned about Lovino's temper, though. It was great! He couldn't be happier for his brother!

He'd had a good day today. Luddy didn't hate him! And they'd watched that funny action movie that Luddy swore made no sense at all. But who cared? They'd had so much fun. After the movie, they went to eat at a nice café, and since Feliciano had forgotten his umbrella, Luddy even shared his. His German friend had seemed a bit stoic and awkward, though. What had that been about? Oh well, it would be okay. He knew it would.

"Ve, Lovi!" Feliciano called from the kitchen. "Could you please give me a hand?"

Moments later, Lovino sauntered in. He looked visibly relieved to be away from Antonio and _nonno, _although he crossed his arms and pouted, as usual. "What do you want now?"

"Could you make the Arrabiata sauce? I need to grate the cheese for the pizza." _And I want to get the details of your date!_

"Why are you making pasta _and _pizza, idiot?" Lovi asked, snatching the tomatoes kept on the counter and gathering the other ingredients. "We're going to have a lot of leftovers."

"I can take them for Luddy tomorrow. Don't worry." Feliciano smiled. "So, how was today? Did you guys get any studying done at all?"

"Of course we did!" Lovi hissed. "Why would you think otherwise?" He began to chop the tomatoes with more force than necessary. He always did things like that when he was stressed.

"You guys were gone for ages! I got home a while back, and the two of you were out." Smirking, Feli said, "Where did you go? What did you do? _Fratello, _tell meeeeee! I want to know about your date."

"It. Was. Not. A. Date." His face turning red again, he said, "We just went to get some air."

"Where?"

"To the park. I don't know why you're—Feli, get that goddamn smirk of your face before I punch your teeth in."

The younger Vargas laughed. "Toni is very nice, you know. He's very handsome, too."

"Fine, then _you_ date him," Lovino grumbled. "But stop implying that this study session was anything other than a study session. We fucking did Chemistry. I have the notes to prove it."

"And you watched _The Godfather,_" Feliciano noted. "You forgot to put the DVD back in the cabinet, that's how I know."

"Yeah, so what?"

"It's your favourite movie! You always quote the dialogues. It must have been so cute to look at. I bet Toni thought it was cute."

For a second, for the smallest of seconds, Lovino stiffened. And then he swore. Loudly. Blood spurted from his thumb. Dropping the knife he was using, he pulled away, staring at his hand with wide eyes.

"Lovi! Your hand! Are you alright?" Feli cried, darting to his older brother.

Antonio tore into the kitchen, followed closely by _nonno. _"Lovi, I heard you shout. What's going on? What happened to your hand?" The Spaniard bound up to the elder Vargas and took his injured palm in his own. "Oh, be more careful, Lovi!" he chastised. It wasn't a very _bad _cut, but Antonio was still cooing at it.

"It's f-fine, stupid bastard," Lovino stammered, pushing past the Spaniard and Feli as he went to the kitchen sink. "Feli just said something and distracted me."

"Ve, what did I do?" Feliciano whined.

"You know damn well what you said."

"But, I didn't—"

"We are _not _going to talk about it anymore."

In the meantime, Grandpa Romulus left and re-entered the kitchen with a first-aid box. "Lovi, let me have a look at that," he said, taking out some cotton and antiseptic lotion.

"_Mio dio, _you idiots, it's FINE. I just cut myself a little. It's not like I chopped off an arm."

"That's not even funny, Lovino," Antonio muttered as the older Vargas twin washed his hand under running water. Feliciano heard his brother sigh in exasperation. The younger brother watched with keen interest—occasionally glancing at his grandfather to make sure his _nonno _was thinking the same thing—as Antonio dabbed Lovi's wound with cotton and antiseptic. Of course, Lovi protested. But he didn't try to pull away.

This was fascinating.

"You bastard," Lovi muttered. But his words had no bite, and he seemed to be saying them just to save face.

"Hold on, _Tomatito, _this might sting."

"Oh, for fuck's sake. It's not a—OW! _Gesù Cristo, _be careful!" He tried to wrench his hand away, but Antonio held on, smiling to himself as he wrapped a band-aid around the small cut.

_Tomatito?_ Feliciano knew no Spanish, but he liked the sound of that.

* * *

Hours later, Feliciano crept into his brother's room. Call it twin intuition, but he knew his _fratello _was awake. Dinner had been so much fun. After Lovi's tiny cut, he just stuck to stirring and grating cheese, he didn't seem to mind. It had been impossible to try and get a word out of his mouth throughout the whole evening, but Feliciano knew he was having a reasonably good time. He kept throwing glances at Toni, to begin with.

Toni got along really well with _nonno, _and Feli, of course, had always liked the Spaniard. They swapped stories about school, and Antonio kept telling them about all the crazy things he and his friends did. Grandpa especially loved how they apparently blew up a toilet cubicle in the guise of conducting a scientific experiment. It had been a wonderful evening, and before Toni had left, he'd pulled Lovi into a tight hug. The night air filled with profanities as his brother had resisted, but Toni had said, "Thanks for helping me today, Lovi."

"Yeah, whatever," Lovino had snapped, freeing himself from the Spaniard's grasp. "Just revise tomorrow, or everything we did today would be pointless. And practice balancing equations, because you're still shit at it. Also, do you have your phone? You better not have left it on the table again."

Antonio had laughed. "Right. Thank you!" Patting the pocket of his jeans, he's said, "Yes, my phone's here. Goodnight, Lovi! Goodnight Feli, Mr. Vargas!"

After the goodbyes were over, Lovino had marched past the other two members of his family, slamming the door behind him as he did, saying, "Shut up, both of you. I can hear you think, and I don't like what you're saying!" before he stormed up to his bedroom and locked himself in.

Feliciano found the room unlocked now, and entered. The lights were out, but Lovino was lying in bed, awake.

"What now?" Lovi groaned as Feliciano entered and shut the door behind him. These midnight conversations between them were rather habitual, and Lovi knew what to expect when he heard the door open and saw his brother's silhouette against the light of the hallway.

Feli crept into bed with him. "Can I tell you something?" he asked.

"You're going to, anyway," Lovino sighed. "Why bother asking for permission first?"

He could tell Lovino hadn't actually changed for bed. And this is why.

"You're still wearing Toni's jacket."

He could feel the material rustle against the sheets on the bed. Lovino tensed up. "It was cold. Don't get all excited. It's just a stupid jacket."

Feliciano laughed, remembering a time when Luddy had lent him his own jacket. It had been in the winter, and Feli had been freezing. Ludwig had sighed at him before slipping off his coat and handing it to Feli without saying a word.

"There's no such thing as a stupid jacket, _fratello._"

* * *

**A/N: I love writing these family moments between the Vargas boys :D**

**_Gesù Cristo_ means _Jesus Christ _in Italian. Everything else has in-story translations. (Like that conversation in Italian between the two boys.)**

**A special hug to Mapple Syrup, for their help with some of the Spanish. If guys spot any issues with the foreign languages, please do let me know. I use Google Translate, so mistakes happen. Also, the only foreign language I sort of know is French, so I might screw up here and there. I would love your advice on how to make it read better. Thank you :)**

**I hope you liked the fully Spamano chapter! I was going to make it longer, but I got tired. The next chapter will have lots and lots of PruCan, so brace yourselves! :D **

**Thanks for reading. Please review. **


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: We crossed a hundred reviews! Oh my god! This is brilliant! Yay, you guys :D Thanks so much for all your support! **

**Also, I have **_**no idea **_**what an ice hockey rink is like, or if there are sports clubs for such things or whatever. Where I live, it doesn't even snow. So if the descriptions are crappy, I'm really sorry. xD**

* * *

Gilbert woke up early on a Sunday, which was enough cause for Ludwig to worry. Add to that the fact that his brother was only playing with his food, his skin grey and his eyes tired. Their parents weren't up yet, but Ludwig woke up at dawn every day to go for a run. He'd been wearing his sneakers when his brother had ambled down the stairs.

"You're up," the blonde had said, his surprise evident in the loudness of his voice and the sudden jerking of his body as he tried to stand without tying his shoelace properly.

Gilbert had been so deep in thought that he visibly jumped, blinking in surprise at his younger brother. "I am," he agreed. "I'm meeting Mattie today. We're playing hockey." That was great, but why did he sound so…weary?

Something was wrong.

Ludwig sighed. Something had been wrong for days now, actually. Gilbert had been oddly moody; sometimes quiet, sometimes annoyed, and always masking this with a thin sheet of his normal crass humour. The younger Beilschmidt would never admit this if anybody asked him, but the fact was, he cared for his older brother. And he was worried.

He watched as Gilbert poured some milk in a bowl and emptied the last of the cornflakes into it, shaking the box a little to make the crumbs fall out. There was alarm-bell number one. Gilbert didn't like cornflakes.

Next, the albino switched on the electric kettle and made himself some coffee. Alarm-bell number two. He usually bullied his younger brother into doing things like that.

"Why are you going out with Matthew so early in the morning?" Ludwig ventured to question. Despite appearances, Gilbert could be fiercely protective of his personal life. And anyway, Ludwig didn't like to pry.

"I told you, we're playing hockey. With a friend of his." That last sentence was spoken with a tone of deep resentment.

"You don't even _like _hockey, _bruder._"

Gilbert, who'd been spooning his cornflakes without interest, set his spoon down and looked at Ludwig with dangerous determination. "_Ja, _but Mattie likes it, so that's that."

"Did you two get into a fight?" Ludwig questioned, just the slightest traces of humour on his face. Why else would Gilbert be so...appeasing?

"_Mein Gott. _Stop asking stupid things and go for your run. You weird fitness freak."

* * *

Matthew was dreading this. He was absolutely dreading this. He didn't know how he'd gotten himself this tangled up in Ivan's mess. He _knew _Gilbert would disapprove. He'd known it all along! And who could blame him? Ivan had been awful to him when they were younger, prompting quite a few of Gilbert's complexes.

It felt like betrayal.

But Matthew also had his conscience to think about. Maple, what a pain.

This stupid hockey game would make things better. He had to believe that. If the two of them even behaved civilly, it would be a big achievement. If not…well…Matthew would have to find some kind of compromise. Something that worked for all three of them.

"Mattie, you okay?" Alfred's voice punctured his thought-bubble.

"Yes, Al," the Canadian sibling replied, rubbing the last traces of sleep from his eyes. They sat at opposite ends of the table, sipping their coffee, as their mother slept. It wasn't like Alfred to even notice that something was on Matthew's mind, usually. What could have given him away?

"You haven't touched your pancakes!" his brother complained. "I got worried."

"I'm fine. Just tired."

The elder brother snorted. "Who asked you to go play hockey with Ivan Braginsky, of all people? Why the heck do you even hang out with that creep? He's like…an axe murderer, right? Pick-axe murderer," Alfred corrected himself.

Matthew stiffened. "Will you stop it? He's my friend."

"Yeah, which is what I don't get! You guys are nothing alike. And you _know _what a bastard Ivan was when we were younger. Those three kids…Raivis, Toris and Ed…Ed-something..."

"Eduard?" Matthew tiredly prompted.

"Yeah! Eduard. They're still terrified of the guy! And your own _boyfriend _was bullied by him. Not that I give a shit about Beilschmidt, after what he did to you…"

"Maple, Alfred, shut up," Matthew snapped. "He's changed, okay? Ivan's not like that anymore. And in all honesty, I was wrong to get so mad at Gilbert for what happened. It's not his fault. He's just protective of me—which is a _good _thing—and I feel terribly guilty for being so mean to him."

Alfred's eyes were slightly wide at his meek younger brother's sudden outburst. He crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow, and said, "You want to know what I think?"

"Not really."

"I think you're confused. Conflicted, even. Beilschmidt's gonna be there for this hockey game, isn't he?" Shaking his head, the American muttered, "My advice: call and cancel. It's going to blow up in your face, and _everybody _is going to end up getting hurt."

Matthew blinked. Was his brother being…_wise _for once? (Arthur would be SO proud!) On any other day, the Canadian would probably have listened to Alfred. In all honesty, his brother had a point. But for some reason, it just made Matthew all the more determined. This had to work out. If today went well, it would make his life _so _much easier.

"Thanks, but I think I'll take my chances," the Canadian replied.

Alfred let out a low whistle. "Wow. What's with you and Braginsky, anyway?"

Matthew swallowed, momentary panic rising to his chest. "It's none of your business."

The American sat up. "Aw, come on, Mattie! You tell me everything."

Matthew Williams snorted. "Is that what you think?"

* * *

An hour or two later, Matthew wished he'd listened to Alfred.

Shit hit the fan.

* * *

The local ice hockey rink was always buzzing with activity in the mornings, where groups came to practice. Matthew had a membership at the club, but his two companions didn't. As he waited for Ivan and Gilbert, he signed their names in, relaxing in the lounge and flipping through the sports channels in the sitting area.

The reception for the club was spacious, basking in yellow light. There were some potted plants littered across the room, and a pretty young woman sat behind the helpdesk, alternating between checking her nails and reading a newspaper. There were quite a few people about, some with badminton and tennis rackets, others with footballs.

A familiar tall figure entered the club, and Matthew automatically stood. "Ivan!" The Russian was wearing hockey gear, and it was the first time Matthew had seen him without his precious scarf.

"Matvey," Ivan greeted with his usual smile. "Good morning."

"Good morning!" Matthew pulled him into a short hug, which Ivan returned without hesitation. When they broke apart, the Russian sat on the couch, looking expectantly at the Canadian.

"Gil will be here soon. The club's a little far from his house."

"That's fine," Ivan replied cheerfully. "I don't mind waiting."

Matthew sat beside him, and the two of them fell into a comfortable silence. It was only broken when the Canadian said, "Ivan, about today…look, just go easy on him, alright?"

The Russian blinked his purple eyes, turning his head towards his friend. "Does Matvey mean to say that Gilbert doesn't know how to play hockey?"

"Yes—no, that's not what I'm talking about!" the Canadian replied, his words gushing out of his mouth much faster than he'd intended. "What I mean is," this time, he tried to calm down, to keep his voice steady, "It's hard for him, alright? Please…just be nice."

Ivan petted Matthew's head, ruffling his hair. "It'll be fine. Don't worry so much."

* * *

Gilbert felt his heart break into two pieces and fall on the floor, where the shards promptly got consumed by demons from hell. From where he was standing, Matthew and Ivan Braginsky were backing him, talking in low tones. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but the Russian asshole had the nerve to ruffle Birdie's awesome hair. It was a wonder Gilbert didn't see red right that instant.

_I must do this. For Birdie. They're friends. That's all they are._

His jaw was set, so Gilbert tried to school his expression into something more friendly. He wasn't sure it worked; for some reason, he was convinced his smile looked pinned up, like a set of paper cut-out dolls nailed to a drawing board.

"Birdie," Gilbert called out, putting on his cheeriest persona as he bounded up to his boyfriend. Matthew jumped and turned, and the Prussian was relieved to find a look of genuine happiness on the Canadian's face.

"Gil!" Matthew cried, and then turned scarlet as the Prussian pulled him close with passion that could rival Antonio's, kissing him full on the lips. It was a whole minute before the albino let go of Matthew, by which time the Canadian looked as bright red as a cherry.

"Good morning," Gilbert replied, giving him his trademark grin. He would refuse to acknowledge Ivan Braginsky's presence unless he had to. In the meantime, the Russian had to know that Matthew was _Gilbert's._

"I-um-uh…hi," Matthew finished, shy. He blinked several times, trying to get his heartbeat under control. Forcing himself to look at Ivan, he said, "Givan, this is Ilbert—I-I mean, _Ivan, _this is _Gilbert_, um, you already know that, um…yeah."

To Ivan's credit, he looked completely unfazed. All he did was smile that creepy smile of his, getting to his feet and offering a hand to the albino. "Good morning, Gilbert."

The Prussian, however, was gruff. The handshake was tense and short. They barely even touched. Gilbert's red eyes were piercing into the Prussian's purple ones, and the albino almost barked out the words, "Yeah, hi."

All at once, the nervous tension became apparent. Matthew felt like a metal wire had been tied around his neck. He almost forgot to breathe. Already, he could tell that today would be a long day.

* * *

Gilbert didn't actually own any hockey gear, so he had to borrow from the club itself. It felt odd around his body, and his body felt odd in general, anyway. It would be unawesome to say this aloud, but he was nervous. He was very, very, very nervous.

There were a few people out on the ice. And while Gilbert did know how to ice skate, he didn't have the same level of comfort with it as Matthew did. He was already a weak hockey player, and if rumours were to be believed, Ivan Braginski was not.

Matthew seemed to know the random people on the ice. He skated up to them, struck a conversation, cracked some jokes, and got them to form teams. Why was Matthew always so confident during hockey, and so shy every other time? Gilbert always loved watching him play from the stands, because it fascinated him how his boyfriend could transform. Matthew, who was usually so quiet that people even forgot he was there, was an absolute monster in the rink. It was just a joy to watch.

Along with a couple of other guys, Gilbert, Matthew and Ivan were on the same team. The game had begun.

* * *

_Oh, Maple, _Matthew found himself thinking.

Not even ten minutes into the game, and Gilbert was at it. The Prussian, Matthew knew, could be unnecessarily aggressive. And that was how he was choosing to play this game. He wasn't as steady on ice as the other players were, but he still fought with three times their strength.

The problem was, he was fighting _Ivan. _And they were part of the _same team_.

The Russian had been momentarily taken aback by this, but it had soon become clear that there was an unspoken rivalry between them. Who was going to score the first goal? Gilbert had decided it was going to be him.

Presently, they were elbowing each other as they skated.

Matthew rolled his eyes before he went to intervene.

This happened a couple of times. In fact, it was getting so bad that Gilbert 'accidentally' tripped Ivan, and the Russian almost retorted with a punch to the face—before he caught Matthew's eye and sheepishly lowered his fist.

Their team, meanwhile, were doing badly. Their opponents took full advantage of Ivan and Gilbert's constant squabbling, and Matthew could sense his own team getting very antsy about it all. More than once, Gilbert (because Gilbert was ALWAYS the aggressor) was sent to the side of the rink, to 'cool off'.

After the fourth time this happened, Matthew could tell Gilbert was done. The Prussian was annoyed, tired and emotionally stressed. And Matthew felt _awful _about it. He knew Gilbert had tried. Sure, he could have tried a bit harder—no, that was just being mean. What had the Canadian expected? Ivan had tormented his boyfriend throughout his whole childhood. The very fact that Gil had even agreed to playing hockey with them today was a miracle. And Matthew sure as hell appreciated it.

Matthew skated up to him. "You alright?"

"_Ja, _fine. Catching a breather, that's all."

"You sure? Do you want to leave?"

"_Nein! _You go ahead and play. I'll just take five minutes."

Matthew sighed before skating off. But when he turned to check on Gilbert a few seconds later, he noticed, with blanched horror, that the Prussian had taken off his helmet.

There were anywhere between one and fifty reasons as to why this was a bad idea. But the most important reason—the one that was flashing wildly, like all the lights of Vegas—was the player from the opposing team. Who was coming in so fast, so ferociously, that he was losing control.

Matthew spat out the mouthpiece.

"Gil, watch out!"

But it was too late.

The player collided with Gilbert, and the Prussian's unprotected head slammed into the ice.

* * *

"Gilbert! Gilbert! Hey, can you see me? Open your eyes. Open your eyes, love." Matthew knelt next to the unconscious albino. Everyone was crowding around him, but it was Ivan who spoke first.

"Matvey, I'm getting some first-aid. It might be a concussion, we'll have to take him to a doctor."

"Hurry, please," Matthew begged as Ivan sped off. Darn it. How many seconds had Gilbert been out for now? Ten, twenty? If he didn't wake up soon, it was definitely a concussion. Matthew had seen enough to recognise them.

Gilbert's eyelids fluttered. Never had Matthew been so relieved to see his red irises, dazed and unfocused as they were. "Mattie…" his voice was barely above a whisper, a shocking change from his usual loudmouth attitude.

"I'm right here. How are you feeling? Does your head hurt? No, stay put!" Matthew ordered as Gilbert tried to sit up. The movement elicited a groan from the Prussian, who fell back against the ice with something spoken in German.

"Head…hurts. _Scheiße_."

"You'll be fine. Listen to me, you'll be fine."

* * *

"Artie, calm down!" Alfred laughed. "Look, there's no need to—well, _I _didn't ask you to join that stupid drama club, I don't even know why you insisted."

"_I think I've made the worst decision of my life."_

Alfred snorted as he propped the phone between his ear and his shoulder, leaving both his hands free to rummage through the refrigerator. "You're being _so_ dramatic. You'll fit right in with the drama nerds!"

"_You think this is hilarious, don't you?"_

"I do, actually. I thought you hated the French dude!"

"_Well…I thought so too. But it's hard to hate someone you grew up with. Even though that damn Frog gets on my nerves sometimes."_

Alfred was not as spacey as he seemed. A smirk forming on his lips, he pulled out a cold hamburger from the fridge and put it on a plate to microwave. "Mattie says it's all sexual tension," he joked. "And Mattie's part French, so I kinda believe him."

"_Matthew says WHAT? That's bullocks!"_

"Really? Then why did you even audition for the stupid drama club, anyway?" The microwave beeped, and Alfred took out his now warm hamburger.

"_A change of scene, you bloody wanker. I got bored with the Student Council. Besides, Yao and I always had disagreements."_

"So, you swapped the council for the drama club, and Yao for Francis. I don't understand what you've achieved., since you argue with _both_ of them, _all _the time."

"_Just…oh, shut it. Bloody American."_

Alfred laughed. "I just beat you at an argument! Hell yeah! When does that ever happen? Oh well, the hero is always right!"

"_Alfred Jones, you're not a goddamn—"_

But the furious ringing of the doorbell made Alfred look up from his phone conversation and his hamburger. It rang six or seven times in quick succession. Who could it be? Matthew? Home already? He must have forgotten to take the house keys. But then, why all the doorbell ringing?

"Hold on. Someone's at the door." Alfred got up and answered it. The sight made him almost drop his phone.

Matthew was standing there, looking tired and terrified, with a semi-conscious Gilbert Beilschmidt leaning heavily over the Canadian. Behind them, Alfred could see Ivan Braginsky's car driving off. The American brought his phone to his ear. "Artie, I'll call you back." He clicked the conversation off, and then brought his attention to Matthew. "Dude, what the fuck happened?"

"I'll explain later. Help me get him upstairs."

Alfred was unnaturally strong, of course. It was easy for him to drag Gilbert up two flights of stairs before setting him down on Matthew's bed. If the German—Prussian, whatever—had been in even the slightest semblance of good health, he would have protested to being practically carried around like a child.

However, Gilbert's eyes just fluttered a bit before closing again.

Alfred turned to his brother. "Let me guess. Braginsky did this."

"_No._ It was an accident. Someone else rammed into him, and Gilbert's head was unprotected. It's a mild concussion. We took him to a doctor's and everything. He just needs to rest for a while. And our house is closer than his own."

Alfred rubbed his temples. "This is insane. I told you something bad would happen. Next time, just listen to what the hero says."

* * *

Gilbert had kept slipping in and out of consciousness. The doctors hadn't been worried, but had Matthew wanted to throw himself off a building. This was _his fault. _If he'd not insisted that Gilbert get to know Ivan. Maple, he shouldn't have befriended Ivan in the first place. He shouldn't have lost his temper when Gilbert jumped the Russian. He shouldn't, he shouldn't—

"Matvey, calm down."

They were in Ivan's car, and he was dropping the two of them home. "I can't. I blame myself. This is a mess."

"It wasn't all bad," Ivan shrugged, not taking his eyes of the road. "We had fun. Before he got hurt, I mean."

Matthew didn't respond.

Now, in Matthew's room, Gilbert twitched. He yawned and winced as the movement caused him pain. His eyes blinked open, and red met violet-blue. In that moment, so much and so little was conveyed. Matthew almost started to cry with the heady power of his boyfriend's concussed gaze.

"Matthew, are you alright?"

Thank goodness Gilbert wasn't slurring. His face was awfully pale, and the bags under his eyes were more pronounced.

"You idiot," the Canadian whispered, lowering his head to his hands. "I should be asking you that." Shaking, he said. "_Je t'aime. Je t'aime, je t'aime, je t'aime, _Gilbert Beilschmidt. _Je suis désolé, _Gilbert, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry!"

Gilbert blinked. "Whoa…" he said, sounding weak. "Slow down, Birdie, I can barely keep up."

Matthew looked up, and Gilbert gasped when he saw tears rushing down his face. "This is my fault. I'm just the worst. I won't mind if you want to leave me. I've been so awful to you this past week."

"And I'm the one with the head injury…" the Prussian muttered, groaning in pain as he tried to sit up. Matthew's soft hands gently pushed him down to the pillows again. "Dummkoph," the albino mumbled, "Calm down, okay? I'm not leaving. I can't, even if I tried. I love you too much. _Gott, _my head hurts like a bitch."

"I got you hurt!"

"No, you didn't. It was a stupid accident, partly my fault. I shouldn't have taken off the helmet."

"I-I'm sorry."

Gilbert groaned. At first, Matthew thought it was out of mild annoyance or whatever, but then, the Prussian's hands flew to his head. "_Verdammt, _stupid headache."

"Hey," Matthew said, his voice gentle. "Here, let me." Tenderly, he took hold of Gilbert's hands and set the down on his stomach. "Mom does this when I get sick. It always makes me feel better." Then, Matthew ran his fingers through his boyfriend's hair. Experimentally, at first. Just to see how he reacted to it. When it didn't seem to cause too much pain, he repeated the gesture. Gilbert's hair was so pale and so soft.

The continuous motion made Gilbert's features relax. His breathing slowed, and he sighed in pleasure. Matthew smiled to himself. If only Gilbert showed this side of him more. Vulnerable, gentle. It wasn't a one-way street, after all. Gilbert may be protective, but Matthew wanted to take care of his boyfriend too.

* * *

Ordinarily, Alfred would have puked at the sight. That, or he would have thrown his head back and laughed. He'd gone up to Mattie's room to check on them, only to find his younger brother running his fingers through Gilbert's hair.

What did Matthew see in that guy? Alfred just didn't get it. But this sight, however, made him soften up, just a little. Alfred sighed and quietly backed away. He didn't want to deal with the consequences of being caught spying on such an intimate moment. Strange. He would usually go out of his way to make the couple feel awkward and uncomfortable.

Now, though, it didn't seem like the right thing to do.

Pulling out his phone, he dialled Arthur's number. It rang four times before his English friend answered.

"_Oh, so you finally decided to remember my existence, is it?"_

"Dude, Mattie came home and—oh, doesn't matter. So, what were we talking about? Right. You, Francis, and sexual tension."

"_You bloody wanker." _And Arthur cut the call.

* * *

**A/N: I hope to god that Alfred isn't OOC. It's weird to write him being so mature. Still, I like this side of Alfred :D **

**PruCan is so cute, though I'm not that happy with this chapter. Thanks for reading. Please review. **


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Are you guys prepared for a long author's note?**

**First of all, thank you for your reviews. I've received some lovely comments for the previous chapter, and that's always so heartening. **

**Secondly, I'd like to address the issue of Alfred's pairing. A couple of reviewers mentioned wanting to see Alfred/Kiku. To begin with, I'd like to say that neither of these characters are important to the plot of this story, although Alfred plays a supporting role in the PruCan angle. As for Kiku, he isn't on my list of favourite characters. However, in chapter seventeen, I'd mentioned in passing that Kiku was on a date with Heracles when Feliciano crashed it, crying. Greece/Japan seems like a legit pairing to me, although I don't really like either of them. **

**However, I have absolutely no problem with writing Alfred/Kiku. There clearly seems to be an audience for it, so if you want, we'll go with that. The original plan was to hint at Alfred/Ivan, but that idea fell apart, and I don't want to write that anymore. So, sure, Alfred/Kiku it is. Of course, this isn't an important pairing, so it'll only get a passing mention, maybe just a bit of hinting. All the same, I hope you enjoy it. :) **

**Another thing: last night, it hit me that Lovi, Feli and Ludwig wouldn't be in the same school year as the BTT! God, what an embarrassing screw-up. I tried to find a scenario in which this plot-hole would make sense, and though I came up with a couple of ideas, they suck. So, just humour me and don't think about it. xD **

**Also, this fic is becoming longer and longer, and spiralling in directions I'd never expected it to go. We're on **_**chapter twenty, **_**and the original plot of this story—that the BTT make Antonio go out with Feli—**_**hasn't even begun yet. **_**Also, the PruCan arc is gaining quite a bit of momentum, and the FrUK angle is also taking on a concrete shape. Seriously, at this point, you could strip these three pairings and turn them into their own stand-alone fics. Bottom line is: do you think I should change the summary? Taking in the recent developments this story has made, the summary is actually a bit misleading. What do you say?**

**Alright, sorry for the ramble. Let me know what you think. **

**Warnings: Mentions of self-harm. **

**By the way: **

_**Que c'est déprimant **_**– How depressing! **

* * *

"_Idiota, _do me a favour." There was a dusting of pink on Lovi's cheeks as they walked to school. The sky was still overcast, the streets slightly damp, and petrichor wafting through the light breeze. Lovino was clad in a white shirt and trousers, with polished black shoes. Feliciano was wearing something similar. Both of them had identical black jackets. As always, the two Italians were impeccably dressed, even if it was just for school.

"Yes, _fratello_?" Feliciano asked, slightly sleepy in the early morning. He yawned, scratching his hair.

Lovino swung his shoulder bag to the front, fumbling with the zip and opening it. He pulled out a crumpled brown cloth. Antonio's jacket. The elder Vargas thrust it into his brother's hands. "Give this to that Tomato Bastard. I can't. It's too embarrassing."

Feliciano snorted. He actually snorted in laughter. The smirk that came on his face was almost wicked; whoever said the younger twin was _innocent, _was an absolute fucking idiot. "Ve…" Feliciano drawled, his cute voice masking his teasing tone. "But don't you want an excuse to talk to him?"

"I _will _punch you," Lovino growled. "Besides, I don't need a fucking excuse. We have most of our classes together."

One second's silence.

"That came out wrong."

Feliciano was shaking in silent laughter. "I see. _Mio fratello _doesn't need an excuse to speak to Toni, because he shares so many classes with him! Lucky Lovino!"

"Feliciano, I swear to _Dio_—"

The younger Vargas snatched the jacket from his brother's hands, still snickering. "Alright, alright. I'll do it. But you're missing out on a perfectly good opportunity."

"For the last time, _we're just friends. _No, no, not even that. He's like this clingy octopus or something that I can't seem to get rid of." He was turning redder and redder, more and more flustered. "You know what," he snapped, glaring at Feliciano's smirk. "This is pointless. You're not going to believe me anyway. I don't even know why I bother!"

"Aw, Lovi, don't be mad! It's not my fault I can see you have a crush on him _before_ you've even realised it!"

"Fuck you."

"That's not very nice…"

"Shut up."

"Lovi and Toni, sitting on a tree! K-I-S-S-"

"SHUT UP, BASTARDO!"

* * *

"_Mon dieu!_ Gilbert! What happened to you?"

Francis, who usually picked up and dropped his friends back home with his car, had to wait an extra ten minutes before Gilbert emerged from his house, followed closely by his younger brother. The self-proclaimed Prussian looked like an absolute mess. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin was milk-white, and his shirt was crushed. Overall, he looked like he'd been stuffed in a tumble-dryer and then hung on a clothesline.

Gilbert shook his head in what seemed like exasperation before opening the car door and sitting inside. Standing by the window, Ludwig said, "Matthew dropped him home like this, last night. Head injury, apparently."

"WHAT?" Francis shouted.

"_Gott, _shut up," Gilbert muttered, resting his head against the seat and closing his eyes. "Shut up and drive." It only made sense for Francis to drop Ludwig to school as well, but they'd realised early on that this arrangement made everyone miserable. Ludwig was too awkward around Francis and Antonio, who in turn, were awkward around him. The German seemed happier to just walk to school himself, sometimes stopping by Feliciano's or Kiku's houses to pick them up.

The Frenchman threw a concerned look to Ludwig, an even more concerned look to Gilbert, before hitting the accelerator. The car began to move. Several minutes of silence passed between them, before the Prussian said, "I played hockey with Ivan and Birdie. This is the result."

"Concussion?"

"A mild one. It's better now."

"You should have just stayed home and rested."

"Nah. Mattie would feel bad. He was really miserable about it yesterday."

Francis took his eyes off the road for a small second, just to glance at his friend. "Ivan…Ivan didn't do this, did he?"

Gilbert made a face. "No, but that doesn't mean I'm okay with this whole scenario."

Francis sighed. "Just make a compromise."

"I'm not going to interfere," Gilbert supplied. "Mattie's life is Mattie's life. Poor guy seems damn torn-up about this, anyway. Really, Franny, you should have seen him yesterday." Taking a breath of air, he asked, "So, how was your Sunday?"

"Hmm? It could have been worse, I suppose. Papa left for New York. Another meeting."

"Didn't he just get back?"

"_Oui_, the day before, from Dubai." Francis rolled his eyes. Usually, this sort of thing didn't bother him. He'd long since become used to it. But Saturday's melancholic feeling had pervaded all through yesterday too, with the after-effects spilling onto today. What a week! So much had happened. It was hard to believe only seven days had passed.

The Frenchman's expensive car stopped in front of Antonio's house. The Spaniard wasn't wearing his favourite jacket today, but looked happier than either of the two had seen him look in ages. He was walking around in circles, holding sheets of paper to his chest as he muttered softly under his breath. When he saw Francis and Gilbert, he looked up and waved.

Opening the door of the car, he jumped inside, saying, "Hola! Good morning!" Since he was sitting in the backseat, he had to stick his head out in front to look at Francis and Gilbert's faces. "Gilly, what happened to you?"

"I played hockey against Matthew, took off my helmet, and almost died. Nothing major. Oh yeah, and Ivan was there, but apparently, he tried to help. Don't ask." Shaking his head in dismay, he quickly changed the topic. "You look happier."

"I have a chemistry test," Antonio replied, smiling.

"Oh, yes. Who can resist the many charms of a chemistry test?" Francis said, drawling it out in his most _romantique _accent.

Antonio laughed, fell back against the car seat, and waved the sheets of paper in the air. "I'm going to keep revising, okay? You guys don't mind, right?"

"You're turning into a total nerd this year, man," Gilbert muttered.

* * *

"Kiku?" Ludwig questioned, surprised to see his friend standing all alone by the lockers. Usually, Heracles was hanging around him. The Greek and the Japanese teens had been friends for some time now, and hadn't they just started dating? How long had it been? A couple of weeks, that's it. Heracles was _always _with Kiku in the mornings.

The black-haired teen glanced up from his schedule, giving Ludwig a short, barely-visible smile. "Good morning. You rook werr."

"Uh…_ja._ Good morning."

"Is everything okay with Fericiano?" Concern flit to his usually stoic features. "He rearry worried me the other day. He just dropped in on my date, crying."

"It's all sorted, don't worry. It was nothing but a simple misunderstanding." Shaking his head in mild amusement, he added, "I'm sorry your date with Heracles was interrupted. I hope it didn't completely ruin your Saturday?"

Kiku smirked, just a little. It was a rueful expression, peppered with mild exasperation. "It's fine. The date wasn't going werr, anyway. There's nothing to say to each other! It was awkward. We decided to not date anymore."

"Oh…" So _that's _why Heracles wasn't hanging around. "I'm sorry to hear that. Are you doing alright?"

"It's fine," Kiku said with a proper smile, looking none the worse for wear. "It's actuarry a rerief. We're better as friends, anyway." With a slight pause, he added, "So, what was wrong with Fericiano?"

Ludwig turned slightly pink. "It's a little awkward. He thought I hated him."

"How curious. Isn't it the opposite?"

"W-what do you—"

Kiku smirked. "I ship you two."

"I don't understand this 'shipping'," Ludwig protested. "Anyway, I don't see what you mean by—"

"You should just terr him your feerings to avoid another misunderstanding rike this," Kiku stated, his voice conveying almost universal finality. Taking his books out of the locker, he said, "Excuse me, I have math."

* * *

It was when Antonio, Gilbert and Francis were walking down the hallway that Feli approached. The Bad Touch Trio had been talking about this-that-and-the-other, being intentionally inane. It was obvious to all of them that stuff was on everyone's mind, but they weren't going to go there. Not yet. It had been a long week for everybody, and today was the start of a new one. They were determined to have a fresh start.

Feliciano was grinning when he came up to them. "Good morning, Gil, Toni, Francis!" he said. As Francis shot him a lecherous smile—the Frenchman had always wanted to get into his pants—Gilbert put a hand on the blonde's shoulder. Antonio didn't seem to notice any of this.

Neither did Feliciano. Both of them were grinning—Feli, because he was giving Antonio's jacket back while mentally teasing the Spaniard with his brother, and Antonio, because if Feli was here, Lovi couldn't be far behind.

The Italian thrust the garment into Antonio's hands. "You forgot this at my place on Saturday."

"Oh, thank you! I had a lot of fun on Saturday, Feli! Thanks for having me over."

"Ve, it was great! You should come over again sometime."

"_Gracias_, I might just!"

And when Feliciano skipped away, saying something about math class, Gilbert let go of Francis's shoulder and looked at Antonio with surprised eyes. "You went to Feliciano Vargas's house on Saturday?!"

"…Oh, yeah," Antonio said absently as he donned his jacket. "It was great fun. I was studying with—"

"Mattie!" Gilbert shouted, distracted. The Prussian jumped and then groaned as the movement jerked his head. Despite that, he went dashing to greet his boyfriend. The Canadian's face split into a grin as he pulled Gilbert close, nuzzling his head in the crook of the albino's neck.

"How are you feeling, Gil? You should have stayed home today."

"Nah, I'm feeling totally awesome."

The sight of the two made Antonio's face momentarily fall. There'd been that one time Roderich experimentally strummed Antonio's guitar as the Spaniard lay in bed after a football injury. The Austrian had been crap at it initially, but then his natural musical talent had taken over, creating a tune that was pretty decent for someone who'd never played a guitar before.

Dammit.

"Toni?" Francis was always perceptive about these things. He tugged his friend's arm, saying, "What's your first class? Hurry up, we'll be late."

Plastering on his standard smile, Antonio swung an arm around Francis's shoulders. "English. I think."

"English," Francis repeated, as though the word had some immense meaning to him.

* * *

The second class of Francis's day was French. He, Antonio and Gilbert had it very lucky in this school. While it was compulsory for students to opt for a second language, their three choices were French, German and Spanish. Being the lazy, no-good, snot-butts that they were, Francis picked French, Antonio picked Spanish, and Gilbert picked German. Second language class was the only thing the three of them actually did well in. Go figure.

Arthur sat ahead of Francis today, which made it all too easy for the Frenchman to piss him off. Saturday's rain had made both of them nostalgic, barring on friendly, but Saturday was gone now. That entire conversation from before would not be mentioned, or even alluded to, ever again. It was a sad state, but that was just how their universe worked. They could not get along. They wouldn't.

Naturally, Francis started poking Arthur's ear with the blunt end of his pencil. The Englishman stiffened but didn't react, staring resolutely ahead as the teacher talked. She was going on about wanting to see more class participation, especially from the weaker students.

Francis tried harder. For someone less skilled, poking another student in the ear would invite at least a glare from the teacher. Francis, however, was a professional asshole. This was child's play. All he had to do was wait for the professor's eyes to slide towards another corner of the room, and then strike. Arthur would turn, red-faced and angry, but would say nothing. Francis would see his lips move to form the words 'wanker' and 'sod off', but that didn't make a difference to anything.

It was when Francis poked Arthur's ear a little too hard that the Englishman whipped around and cried, "Will you stop that? Stupid Frenchie!"

"Arthur," the teacher said, and the Englishman went beetroot as he remembered that his professor was from Paris. She had a gleam in her eyes as she said, "I was talking about wanting to see more class participation. Why don't you start?"

"W-what?" Arthur spluttered. "But Francis was—"

"You can really use some practice," the teacher went on. "Stand up in front of class and give us a little extempore speech, would you? Something simple, don't worry. Hmm…Alright, this is an easy one! Talk about your best friend."

Francis snickered quietly into his hands.

"That's such a kiddie topic!" Arthur complained.

"Then you should have no problem at all." She waved in the general direction of the front of the class. "Come on then. Speak."

"Uhh…" Arthur's movements were painfully slow as he got out of his chair and trudged to the front of the class. His heart was hammering in his ears. Not that he was afraid of public speaking—because he absolutely wasn't—but this was _French. _It was like English, but stupider.

He had a clear view of Francis, shamelessly smirking as he sat back against his chair. Damn frog. He looked too pleased with himself. This would not do. _If the wanker can do it, so can I. Anyway, he speaks English perfectly. I can speak basic French, at the very least. How hard can it be? When in doubt, just make some coughing, snorting noises, just like the frog does._

The teacher's arms were crossed in anticipation. She tapped her foot, waiting for Arthur to talk about 'his best friend'.

This was just beyond embarrassing.

"…_Mon meilleur ami est Alfred Jones_," Arthur began, hesitating. He watched as Francis's smirk faltered just a little before it came right back.

Arthur's accent was a little difficult to understand. The awful _anglais _lilt coating the graceful French words was just nightmarish to have to listen to. But at least it wasn't like the other day, when Arthur had been intentionally butchering the beautiful language.

The Frenchman was convinced he was going to enjoy the show, until it hit him what the topic of the speech was. _My Best Friend. _It was infantile, really. Even a four-year-old could do it. But Arthur's hands were shaking slightly in nervousness. Francis would almost have been sympathetic if the Englishman hadn't just said, "_My best friend is Alfred Jones._" Francis's smirk almost fell off his face, because _of course _Alfred was his best friend.

_All our childhood games meant nothing. Que c'est déprimant! _

Nevertheless, the Frenchman kept his smile plastered on. At least it would be fun to watch Arthur make a total fool of himself.

The Englishman kept speaking. Often, the teacher would have to correct his pronunciation or rephrase a sentence for him. _My best friend is Alfred Jones. He is American. He lives with his brother, Matthew, and his mother, Amelia. He likes video games, watch Pretty Little Liars _(Francis tittered in amusement) _and hamburgers. He is loud and likes to talk, but will always listen if you want his help. He loves to help. He likes being the hero. He likes English food. _(A collective gasp from the class, and Arthur glared at all of them.) _Though he is an idiot, I care for him very much. _

By the end of the speech, Francis was feeling lonelier than ever.

* * *

The water was icy against his skin, but it had an electrifying effect. Matthew lifted his head from the basin, wiping his dripping face with his hands as he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He reached for the tissue dispenser, dabbing his face with the soft paper. It became very damp, very fast.

Matthew wasn't really paying attention to the empty bathroom, so he almost jumped when he saw a cubicle door open. Ivan stepped out. The Russian looked sleepless and weary. When he walked, it was with a soft wince. You wouldn't notice it if you weren't looking. Matthew was.

"Matvey," Ivan exclaimed, blinking in surprise. He put his hands under the faucet and let the water run. Scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing with soap, he kept shooting glances at the Canadian. It was a long moment before either of them spoke. "How's Gilbert doing?"

"Better, thankfully." Matthew was done with the bathroom, but he couldn't find it in him to leave. So he just stood there, clutching his backpack awkwardly, staring at the mirror. His glasses were slightly foggy. Huh.

"I waved at you in the hallway, before," Ivan said. "You didn't wave back."

"No, I didn't," Matthew agreed.

"Gilbert's making you ignore me," the Russian concluded, sighing as he wiped his hands with tissue.

"No, he isn't," Matthew responded. "I simply didn't wave back."

Ivan now looked at the Canadian, panic visible on his face. "Matvey—"

"I just need to sort out some stuff, alright?" Matthew said. Up until then, his voice had been as soft as ever. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he felt something bubbling in his chest, a furious jolt of energy that left him quaking with anger. It was an intense feeling, consuming, blinding. And oddly familiar.

_A flash of a blade. Skin breaks. Blood. _

"Matthew?" Ivan suddenly prompted, noticing the stiffening of the Canadian's posture.

"I need to sort out some stuff," Matthew snapped, turning to fully face Ivan. "Please, just…just let me be."

Ivan looked crestfallen. "I'm sorry."

Matthew did not respond. He should have. He knew he should have. And his conscience was going to be killing him about it for the next three days, but he didn't even look at Ivan. Instead, he just turned on the balls of his feet and stormed out of the bathroom.

* * *

In sociology, they were studying the dynamics of race and religion in a community. This class always got people very involved, because everybody had an opinion and everyone had an experience. Their school, which had so many foreign nationals, meant that each person had something amazing to share.

The teacher would begin the class by making a student read out a few paragraphs, and then he'd begin the discussion. Today's topic was the civil rights movement. And Lovino was the sacrificial lamb.

"Mr. Vargas, I want you to read that first paragraph on page four."

The Italian's head jerked up. As always, he'd been doodling on the corners of his notebook, ignoring Antonio. (That damn Tomato Bastard found it hilarious that Lovino was so embarrassed about the jacket incident. Now, he was sitting so close to Lovino that their desks almost touched. He'd intentionally pushed his table and chair just a little bit closer to the Italian's, much to the other's chagrin.)

"Page four…" Lovino said, flipping his book open.

"Start reading that first paragraph. We can then discuss it."

Lovino began to read out loud. Or, he tried to, anyway.

"In the early 1960s, the poorest state in America was—" and then he suddenly broke off. He could feel panic rise to his chest as he stared at the word. Mi…Misisisi…The more he fumbled with it, the worse it got. The letters jumped twirled around the page, the Is and the Ss snaking around each other. "The poorest state in America was…" he began again, his voice starting to waver. "M…Misi…" _FUCK, WHY IS THIS HAPPENING __**NOW**__? _

Because his grandfather didn't believe in learning disabilities, he refused to even look at the document that would enable Lovino to get extra time during tests. As a result, almost none of Lovino's teachers knew about his dyslexia. Even now, the sociology professor was looking at the Italian with an eyebrow raised in curiosity, his arms crossed.

"…Mi…"

Someone in the back of the class started to laugh.

Lovino was on the verge of hyperventilation. He could feel tears rise to his eyes. Fuck, this didn't make things any better. Now he couldn't even see the letters properly because his vision was blurring! Shit, shit, fucking fuckity shit!

"Misi…"

"Mississippi." Antonio's voice was quiet and steady, soft enough to keep it between them, but loud enough for Lovino to hear the word clearly. His eyes shot towards Antonio, and their eyes met for only a split second.

Lovino could not be honest about these things using words. So he tried to use that one second to convey _thank you, thank you so much, thank you SO much. _

"Mississippi," Lovino finished, his voice shaking. He blinked, forcing the tears away. He could not cry in class. He could not. He would never live it down.

The teacher took a step closer to Lovino, looking very, very calm. "Keep going." That voice held no judgement, only immense patience. He must have clued in on the problem. Just fucking great.

Lovino's heart was still hammering out of his chest, his brain was still not thinking coherently enough, and he could NOT calm down. The more frazzled he got, the more confusing the words looked.

He said the next sentence slowly, forcing his brain to process each individual word, each individual syllable as its own entity. It worked. Next sentence. And the next. Good, good work, Lovino. Only a few more sentences left.

He was almost starting to relax when he stumbled again. "Racial se—" _Oh, shit. _"Seg…" The letters started rebelling, actually moving. Panic froze his brain again. He knew this word, he was sure he knew this word. It was basic. But he couldn't…_fuck, now I can't even remember the word! _Lovino often forgot his vocabulary when he was this stressed out. "Se…seg…segre…" He blinked, his hands clamping on the flaps of the book, leaving nail-marks on the pages. "Se…"

"Segregation." Once again, Antonio's voice was gentle and soft, encouraging and calm.

"Racial segregation," Lovino managed to choke out. He was starting to feel dizzy. A dull pounding began in his temples. But he kept at it. Dammit, he was far too used to this crap happening than he'd like to admit. It had only come under control in the last couple of years, and every now and then, he had to face these little problems.

Two more sentences. Lovino's stomach was churning. The pounding in his head felt like someone was banging a gong against his skull. The words kept quivering around the page. The Italian was starting to feel queasy.

"While most popular re…" _Oh, for fuck's sake! _"Repi…" _No, that's not right. _"Repre…repre…" Lovino's eyes darted towards Antonio now, in a state of abject terror. The Spaniard nodded encouragingly. Lovino understood that expression. _Keep going, Lovi. You can do it. I'm right here, don't worry. _The Italian swallowed as his stomach churned some more.

"Alright, Lovino." Finally, the teacher had spoken up. Lovino could see no anger in his eyes, just quiet acceptance. And perhaps…perhaps a bit of admiration? "Alright, that's fine. Someone else can—"

"Repre…representation," Lovino spat out. _Fuck this shit. Stupid fucking sentence. I swear to Dio I'm going to read the shit out of this goddamn paragraph. _"While most popular representations revolve around the leadership and…"_ phil…philo…_ "Philosophy of Martin Luther King Jr., many scholars note that the movement was far too…" _di…divert…no, divisive…NO, _"Di…diverse…to be to be accredited to one person, organisation or stra…stragety—stra-_te-_gy," he quickly corrected.

The teacher blinked. Not a single noticeable expression on his face. "Alright. Very good. Thank you, Mr. Vargas." He then trained his eyes onto the rest of the class, and began talking about the American Civil Rights movement.

Meanwhile, Antonio made sure the teacher was looking elsewhere, before he reached out and gently tugged on the end of Lovino's jacket sleeve. "Tomatito, I'm so proud of you."

Lovino groaned softly, putting his head on the desk. "I am going to throw up."

"Relax, Lovi. Just close your eyes and breathe. You're fine. You'll be fine, okay?"

Lovino did not respond for several minutes. He just kept his head on the desk, his eyes shut, as he took several deep breaths. The professor did occasionally glance at him, but said nothing before looking away. Only after a quarter of an hour had passed did the Italian look up slightly. His skin was a little less green—in fact, there was a slight blush dusting his cheeks—and when he glanced at Antonio, it was with the smallest of nods. A blink-and-you-miss-it gesture.

Quietly, Lovino muttered, "Thanks, bastard."

Antonio just smiled.

* * *

Alfred didn't see Kiku. He was late for class and worried about it, because it was Economics, and the teacher hated the American. Alfred had been running, Kiku had been turning around the corner of a connecting hallway, and before either of them knew it, the air was filled with two surprised yells and a clatter of books.

The American was the first to recover. Adrenaline was still coursing through his veins and he jumped up, picking up his flimsy excuse for a notebook. Kiku, on the other hand, was struggling. His arms had been laden with all sorts of tomes—some looked so old they could have been in a Dan Brown novel—his bag had upturned all over the floor, and his lunchbox had opened. Five pieces of now decimated sushi lay amid the carnage.

"Aw, I made you spill your lunch," Alfred whined, guilt taking the better of him as he bent next to the Japanese teen. Picking up some of Kiku's books, he said, "Why do you even carry lunch? The cafeteria food is really great, dude!"

Kiku, who'd been mostly silent up until then, rolled his eyes. "They do not know how to cook Japanese food."

"They make a mean hamburger," Alfred said with a grin, depositing Kiku's books in his bag for him. "Do you have any lunch money? I don't want you to starve because of me…"

"Do not worry," Kiku said, noncommittally. Alfred clued in pretty quick.

"I'll lend you some! Because it's NOT cool to go hungry. And you can pay me back tomorrow."

Kiku's eyes went wide. "You rearry do not—"

"Great," Alfred interjected, patting Kiku on the shoulder. "That's settled, then."

* * *

Where had that damn bastard vanished? As soon as Sociology had ended, Antonio had slipped out of the classroom and disappeared. He was trying to escape music again, wasn't he? Fucking idiot. This had gone on long enough.

Lovino checked the terrace, which had unintentionally become their hideout. And sure enough, there he was. Antonio was leaning against the parapet, staring out into the school gardens. Lovino came up from behind him, announcing his presence as he did.

"Hey, bastard."

Antonio turned, his eyes brightening. "Lovi, do you feel better? Not queasy anymore, _si_?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," the Italian said dismissively. Then, curling his hand around Antonio's wrist, he said, "Come with me."

"Where are we going?"

"Come on. Idiot."

Antonio followed along without protest for about thirty seconds. They left the terrace and began walking down the corridor, and that was when the Tomato Bastard stopped in his tracks. "No, Lovi, _no._ Don't make me."

"You need to do this." Lovino glared at the Spaniard. "You always say that you like music. But I've never heard you play, and you never even attend music class. Enough is enough."

His green eyes were wide with panic as he wrenched his hand away from Lovino. His taut posture and clammy skin were all the hints Lovino needed before he realised that Antonio was on the verge of another episode. "_Mio dio, _Tomato Jerk, just listen to me." He had to be calm. If not, he was going to push Antonio into a state of complete hysteria. As it were, Antonio was taking several steps back, his breathing become uncomfortably quick. If it weren't for the fact that the corridor was practically devoid of life, he would have been causing a scene.

"Don't, don't, please, don't, please, please, please, don't," Antonio spoke, his voice high and terrified.

"Okay, okay, calm the hell down." Lovino raised his hands up in surrender, taking a few steps away from the Spaniard. "Antonio, are you listening to me? Just listen to me, okay?"

Again, it was the voice.

The first time, it had been Lovino's Italian accent, the rolling Rs, the curved lilt of his words, that had broken Antonio out of the episode. The second time, again, Lovino had made physical contact with him as he spoke. This time, as always, it was his voice. His voice.

"I won't throw you in there alone, I promise. You'll be fine, okay? I'm with you. I'm coming with you. It's music. You love music. Guitars and stuff, right? Carly Santana and all that…? Look, relax. I'm on your side, here. You have to man up and face this Roderich asshole. Get a grip, Antonio!"

"…Carlos."

"What?" Lovino spat.

Antonio blinked, running a hand through his hair. "Carlos Santana. Not Carly."

The Italian rolled his eyes. "You are such a complete idiot, I don't even know how you breathe without help." Once more, his hand curled around Antonio's wrist. But it was less aggressive this time, and it only took a gentle tug to get Antonio moving again.

Students had just begun shuffling into class, so Lovino was able to slip in without really standing out. To his relief, there were quite a few students. Nobody would notice one more. Antonio picked out a seat at the very back of the class. He was being very quiet, flinching at the slightest provocation: loud laughter, playful drumbeats…

"Where's your guitar, bastard?"

"At home," he said, quiet. "But there are some spare ones around here somewhere."

"Go get one."

When Antonio ran his hands down the spare guitar, he seemed to visibly relax. Once more, Lovino saw all his defences go down as he muttered to himself in Spanish, tuning the instrument the way he liked it. It also helped that Roderich hadn't yet entered the room, and nor had the teacher.

Experimentally, Antonio strummed. Then he clicked his tongue in annoyance and tuned it once more. His hands ran effortlessly around the silver keys. He would hold the peg between his teeth as he calibrated the instrument, taking it in his hands as soon as he wanted to play. Lovino watched all of this in fascination.

Roderich still hadn't arrived, but people had noticed Antonio's presence. He seemed to be some kind of celebrity in the class, because immediately, five different students sauntered over and asked him where he'd been all this time. Lovino, meanwhile, did his best to not get noticed. Antonio would make up some silly lie, something that ranged from having to fight a bull one-on-one to working as a part-time conquistador.

He then turned to Lovino. "What song would you want to listen to?"

"Whatever, bastard. Better make it something nice."

Antonio paused in thought for a moment. "Can I play my favourite salsa tune?"

"Yeah, whatever."

The Spaniard donned a look of thought for a moment, as though he was trying to remember how the tune went. Recognition flooded his leaf green eyes, and he began to strum.

The tune was rocky at first, like he was trying to get the feel for it. But then, Lovino started to notice the catchy, recurring rhythm. Antonio's hands slipped up and down the guitar almost lovingly. His eyebrows were slightly creased in concentration, the tip of his pink tongue poking out of his lips.

But he looked so happy.

The music was like a brook. It ran cheerfully, skipping on rocks on the way, laughing as it went. The music was _Antonio, _flowing through a guitar. It was playful and cheeky, flirtatious almost, but kind, and somehow warm. Lovino felt himself completely captured by the electricity in Antonio's eyes. He found himself drumming his fingers on the table to the beat. This was Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. This, right here.

Antonio didn't notice this, but Lovino picked it up instantly: everyone around them had fallen silent. They were listening. All of them were listening to Antonio play. The thought made Lovino swell with pride, though he would never, ever, ever admit this aloud.

The tune twirled and flittered through the air, and Lovino could picture actual salsa dancers spinning across the floor. He didn't know the first thing about this dance, but he suddenly wanted to perform it. The song was reaching its climax, and Antonio's playing was getting more fevered, more excited. The smallest of grins appeared on his face as his fingers moved over the guitar, bringing the music to its sudden, dramatic close.

There was a resounding silence when Antonio stopped playing. Only then did he look away from his guitar to notice the audience.

Applause. It was friendly and amused, as though they were all used to seeing this side of Antonio before. Lovino didn't clap, but just stared at his idiot friend in awe. He really was something, wasn't he?

But even as Antonio's grin began to return, Lovino saw it getting frozen and fake. Roderich was standing in the room. How long had he been there? Behind him was the music teacher, fifteen minutes late.

"Excellent playing, Antonio," the teacher said, nodding his approval. "Where have you been all week?"

The Spaniard cleared his throat awkwardly and shrugged.

The teacher rolled his eyes. "Don't make this a habit."

"No, sir. I wouldn't dream of it."

To the rest of the class, the teacher said, "Sorry I'm late. Roderich wanted to speak to me about his recital. Anyway, doesn't matter. I'm here now."

Roderich was gazing at Antonio, who was gazing right back. Lovino felt his heart rate quicken. They shared some classes, true, but music was something both of them truly loved. If Antonio had an episode _now…_

It was an intense moment. But it was shattered when Antonio broke eye-contact with the Austrian and turned to Lovino, whispering, "Did you like the song, Lovi?"

Lovino, in a move unprecedented for him, nodded. "Yes, I did. You play really, really well."

* * *

**A/N: Awh, man! Long chapter. Basically, this was a collection of a few scenes depicting how everyone's relationships are developing before The Next Thing That's Supposed To Happen happens. **

**By the way, I am not dyslexic. If I've screwed up that scene between Lovi and Toni, I'm really sorry. If you have any input regarding that segment, I'd be happy to hear it.**

**Also, I was planning to write a scene with that Chemistry test, but as I started to type, the chapter morphed into something quite different. I really, really like where I've ended it, so I'm not going to add the Chem test scene. I'll add that in the next chapter, _maybe. _Let me know if you even want to see it. It's nothing special, really. The Spamano scenes in this chapter would outshine it like the sun would a piece of glitter. I was planning on doing a time-skip in the next chapter, so I'd really not write it, ideally. I'll only do it if you guys want to see it. **

**Anyway, thanks for reading. Please review! **


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Mixed reviews about the Alfred/Kiku thing. Hmm. **

**Okay, guys, look, Ameripan isn't even a main pairing in the story. I don't even **_**like **_**Kiku very much, and Alfred is adorable, but I can't really see him in an actual relationship. I wasn't even planning on writing a relationship for Alfred, or for Kiku. The only reason I even brought it into the story was because I received reviews asking for Alfred to be paired with someone—namely, Kiku. This is NOT an important pairing, and at the MOST, it'll receive a passing mention. Hell, now that I know there are people who don't like it, I'll dumb it down to make it a bit platonic, so you can read it as a friendship instead of a romance. **

**But I'm sorry, I'm not going to change pairings again. One way or another, this pairing has absolutely no impact on the plot of the story. For all I care, Alfred and Kiku could be paired with each other, or with a Barbie and a Pikachu plushie, and it wouldn't make a difference to the plot. Switching pairings midway through the story (I had to write a scene in the start of the last chapter where Heracles and Kiku decide not to date, right? Plus, Alfred buys Kiku lunch) is an unnecessary waste of my time, and probably even your time. It adds length to a story that's 21 chapters long and counting. I'm not going to do it. **

**The main pairings of this fic are Spamano, PruCan and FrUK, with some GerIta. Ameripan will be there in light sprinkles, so subtle that you could mistake it for platonic friendship. Actually, it would barely have any focus. So, one way or another, this is not an Ameripan or America/anybody or Kiku/anybody fic. If you're reading this story for America or Japan pairings, you're going to be disappointed. **

**I'm sorry if I come off as rude or brisk. I'm just puzzled as to why this is even an issue, that's all. I've repeatedly said that Ameripan will **_**not **_**be a main pairing. It's really a bit pointless to get emotionally invested in it. Of course, if you're keen on America or Japan pairings, you can read fics about them. There are plenty of wonderfully written Ameripan or Giripan fics out there. Honestly, even if I tried writing these pairings as seriously as I'm writing Spamano, PruCan or FrUK, it would suck. I don't even ship Ameripan or Giripan. Not really. **

**Anyway, sorry for my rant. I hope I haven't pissed you guys off. XD But this just had to be said, you know? Ah, well. Here's the next chapter. I hope you like it! **

* * *

Roles had reversed, for once.

It was raining again tonight, and it was late. Fifteen minutes past one in the morning. Feliciano had been fast asleep. His dream involved Ludwig, Kiku, and an abnormally large stack of articles. They were supposed to edit these articles for the school newspaper, but somehow, Feliciano dropped ketchup on them and then a dragon entered the picture and ate all the pasta and then a bigger dragon came and ate the pasta eating dragon.

It was a very involved story. And Ludwig had laughed four times during the course of it, so Feliciano was quite enjoying his dream. But something made him wake up. Something made him stir.

The dim light from the hallway entered his room, poking the back of his eyelids and making him frown involuntarily. There was a slight click as his room door was closed, which further roused the Italian. He didn't hear the quiet footsteps on the floorboards, but the sudden weight on his bed made Feliciano open his eyes a little.

The silhouette was etched clearly against the window. Soft rain pattered down from red clouds. Light from the street lamp outside snuck into the room.

"…Lovi?" Feliciano mumbled.

His brother settled down in Feliciano's bed. Lovino had even carried an extra pillow, which he now placed under his head, before pulling the blanket on him. "Go back to sleep, _idiota,_" Lovi said. His voice was surprisingly soft. "Forget I'm here."

"…Lovi, are you alright?" Feliciano was fully awake. This was so unlike his brother that it was honestly starting to worry him. What could possibly be wrong with Lovi? Was he feeling unwell? Was he sad? Did something happen in school? Come to think of it, he'd been acting quiet and reserved all day.

When Lovino didn't respond, Feliciano sat up in bed and reached an arm out for the light switch. It was on the wall right next to where he would lay his head, so it didn't take more than a second for him to find the switch and illuminate the room.

The sudden light almost blinded Feliciano. Even Lovi groaned, throwing a hand over his face.

As the brothers got accustomed to the light, Feli asked, "_Fratello? _What's going on? Ve, it's so late. Did you have a nightmare?"

"I told you to just forget I was here," Lovi reminded, sounding tired, but not sleepless. "Idiot," he added for good measure.

"Lovino." For Feliciano to use his full name, and sound so deadly serious as he said it, was a rare thing indeed. "Talk to me? What's wrong?"

"I can't sleep. I just keep thinking." _And if I sleep with you, I would feel a little more reassured. _

"What's on your mind?"

"Lots. I made an ass of myself in sociology today. And then I snuck into music class."

"You don't even have music."

"I don't," Lovino agreed.

"Lovi…what's wrong?" Feliciano asked for what felt like the tenth time. "You're not being straight with me."

Lovino sighed in what seemed like contentment. Strange. His brother was never really content with things. Everything aggravated him, everything got on his nerves. He even had this stupid inferiority complex towards Feli. The younger Vargas felt so guilty about it. Lovino was talented and smart and wonderful. He shouldn't have to feel so bad about himself.

"Nothing's wrong," Lovino said, and for some reason, Feliciano knew he was being honest. "Actually, everything feels right."

"…Everything?" Feliciano prompted.

Lovino laughed. He actually laughed. It was short, shallow and tired, but it was true. There was actual joy behind that sound. "Nothing. Sorry for being so cryptic. I don't know what's got into me." Turning on his side, he pointedly backed his brother. "I'm going to try and sleep, okay? Good night."

"Ve…" Feliciano mumbled, now thoroughly confused. "Good night…"

He switched off the light, lay back down, and fell asleep next to his brother.

* * *

_Two Weeks Later_

* * *

"…And there was a loud _boom_, like, _BOOM!_ And there was a helluva lot of smoke and shit, and mom got almost half scared to death, and Luddy was cowering in a corner, and it was the Awesome Me that took the initiative to check on what the heck actually happened! Yup, I'm brave as fuck. Anyway, so it turned out, Luddy had, like the genius he is, put a metal bowl in the microwave." Gilbert broke off and laughed, putting an arm around Matthew. The Canadian's eyes had widened over the story, looking at his boyfriend in a combination of shock and disbelief.

"He put a metal bowl in the microwave?" Francis asked, raising an eyebrow as he daintily cut up a piece of roast chicken from his lunchbox. "That sounds like something _you _would do, _mon ami._"

"That's true," Matthew said, sneaking a grin.

Antonio laughed.

Gilbert looked scandalised. His jaw dropped, his eyes widened, and he glared indignantly at his friends and boyfriend. "Luddy did it," he said, his voice heavy. "_Anyway_," he added, quickly changing the subject, "So now, our kitchen's a godawful mess, we don't have a working microwave, and _Mutti _has banned the both of us from the kitchen. Not that I care. Cooking is boring!"

"Cooking is _not _boring, you _sot._ It is a fine art, like painting and sculpture! It enables us to achieve a sense of culinary divinity—"

"Francis, _mi amigo,_ shut up," Antonio said good-naturedly as he nudged the Frenchman in the ribs. There was an impish grin on his features.

"Culinary divinity," Gilbert snickered, as Francis turned a shade of red and huffed in indignation.

"It's alright, Francis…" Matthew offered him a smile. It slowly, slowly turned into a cheeky smirk. "_Est-ce-que tu veux qu'on parle français, afin qu'ils pensent que nous parlons dans leurs dos? Devant eux?" Do you want to speak in French, so that they think we're talking behind their backs? In front of them?_

"What did you say to him?" Gilbert asked, raising an eyebrow at Matthew. The Canadian just smiled placidly.

Francis smirked. "_C'est une excellente idée!_" _An excellent idea. _

The two of them proceeded to get into an entire conversation in French. They were only talking about pancakes verses crepes, but they kept shooting glances towards Antonio and Gilbert, snickering as they did. The albino was turning a shade of red, and the Spaniard just looked confused.

"They're bitching about us," Gilbert concluded, looking at Antonio helplessly. "They're bitching about us in French."

Antonio shrugged. "Nothing they're saying to each other, they haven't said to us a hundred times before." Counting off his fingers, he continued, "Francis generally complains about our eating habits, our dressing sense, and our lack of class."

"Heh, true," Gilbert said, relaxing. He glanced around the cafeteria now, bored. How long with Matthew and Francis keep up with their stupid French game? Awh, who cared? They did this all the time. Ivan hadn't come to school for a couple of days now. Not that Gilbert cared. It seemed as though Matthew didn't either. They never hung around each other any more.

In fact, things were looking quite peachy for Gilbert. His relationship with Matthew had never been better! They went on dates every other day, they sat together during lunch, they were talking more…And no mention of Ivan. Excellent.

Antonio, meanwhile, also looked a whole lot happier. Freaking finally. It had been ages since he and Roderich had broken up. It was high time the Spaniard move on. Gilbert had a sneaking suspicion that his friend's good moods had to do with 'studying' at Feliciano Vargas's house. He went there every weekend, apparently. Interesting. Antonio was even back to strumming his guitar. In fact, he carried the damn thing with him to school every day, randomly pulling it out during lunch to play. Like old times.

Things were _finally _going back to normal. Phew.

Well, close to normal. Francis, for some reason, was in some sort of heated battle with Arthur.

He hadn't actually told them what had transpired between the two, but suddenly, the both of them seemed a little more…involved…with each other. In practically every class that Gilbert shared with the two, Francis would sit behind Arthur and bother him, poking his ear with a pencil, taking a marker and drawing on the back of his shirt. It was hilarious to watch, because Arthur would turn various shades of pink and purple, before turning around and yelling at Francis. By now, the both of them had gone into detention so many times that it had to be some sort of school record.

That wasn't all. Arthur had decided to retaliate in an almost Bad Touch Trio-styled way. He once snuck a frog into Francis's locker. The prissy Frenchman almost had a heart attack, as Gilbert and Antonio clutched their sides and fell to the floor, laughing their heads off. Francis had his revenge, though. Knowing Arthur's conservative tendencies, Francis had gone and pasted nude pictures of himself in the Englishman's locker. Arthur had almost _died _of mortification.

Now and then, Francis employed Antonio and Gilbert's help to play a prank on the Englishman, although he seemed to have more fun just doing it on his own. Now that they were working in the drama club together, it wasn't even like they could ignore each other. However, work for the club hadn't actually started.

It would, soon.

Today, actually.

Francis and Matthew finally got bored of their conversation in French, because the Canadian said, "Arthur came over the other day, screaming his head off, because you apparently gave him a pair of tweezers with a note saying 'You Really Need Them'?"

"You did what?" Antonio snorted, looking at Francis in deep amusement.

Gilbert snickered. "_Gott, _that's hilarious. In a mean way."

"It's all in good fun," Francis said, shrugging. "He filled my locker with a basket full of English food. Trust me, _mes amis, _I went easy on him."

"You're such children, both you and Arthur," Matthew sighed.

"We are young at heart," Francis corrected, grinning. "Ah, today should be fun. Everybody is coming over to my house after school, to discuss our play. It's our first official drama club meeting!"

"Don't kill the poor guy," Antonio advised. "Arthur's funny."

Francis waved him off. "Nonsense. I don't plan on killing him, Toni. Just mentally scarring him for life."

"That's fine, then," Gilbert approved.

Matthew rolled his eyes.

* * *

"Lovi, Lovi, Lovi!" Antonio cried, shoving a sheet of paper under the Italian's nose. "Look!" It was a Chemistry test. This was another one—the teacher was obsessed with weekly tests. It was a pain, but Antonio seemed more than ecstatic about his grade.

B-

"Bastard, I thought you said you were going to get an A," Lovino muttered, taking it from his hands and scanning it for errors. He sighed when he saw a few red marks on the page. "Dammit, Antonio, you lost your grade because you fucked up with the equations. Didn't you practice balancing?"

"I did," Antonio whined, but his smile came right back on his face. "But I usually get an F, so this is a _huge _improvement! And it's _all _because of _you._" At his words, the Italian blushed.

"…Yeah, great," he stuttered. "Damn right it's because of me. You're fucking welcome. Asshole." They'd been spending a lot of time with chemistry recently. Lovino found that Antonio's basics were shockingly weak, so much so that it was a miracle he'd made it this far without a tutor.

Not that Lovino minded. He pretended to mind, but that was because of his damn pride. It was nice to have someone except Feli to talk to. Antonio was hilarious, in a stupid kind of way, and was essentially a good guy. _With emerald eyes that almost glow with joy, and tan skin and a handsome, laughing face, and—_

"Lovi? You're blushing. More than usual." Antonio tilted his head to one side, looking all in the world like an inquisitive puppy. His curiosity turned to worry. "Are you okay? You're not sick, are you? _Madre's _face gets all red when she's sick." He reached out to put a hand on Lovino's forehead.

The Italian let out a strangled yelp. "I'm fine! Don't touch me, you pervert!"

Antonio drew back, hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay, relax!"

Lovino turned away, facing the classroom window with a resigned huff. The worst part of this situation was that Feliciano was _right. _He may have been getting the tiniest, smallest _crush _on Antonio. "I'm so fucked," he whispered to himself.

"Did you say something, Lovi?"

"No! Shut the hell up, bastardo!"

* * *

_A Few Hours Later_

* * *

**Ivan, you haven't come to school in a while. All okay?**

Matthew stared at the screen of his phone. He'd sent that a few hours ago, and still no response. He was starting to worry. Honestly, he had no idea what he was even doing anymore. Friendship with Ivan, relationship with Gilbert...and he was trying to keep both parties happy. It was impossible. He never hung around Ivan in school anymore, although he and the Russian would hang out sometimes. And he never brought Ivan up in front of Gilbert.

But it felt like deception. He felt like he was cheating on his boyfriend. Which he wasn't!

It was just...

...Complicated.

Matthew closed the text window and left his phone on top of his backpack. "Gil, can you just stay here for a moment?" he asked, getting up from their booth in their favourite cafe. "I'm going to the toilets."

"Of course, Birdie," Gilbert smiled. "Should I order for you?"

Matthew gave him a grin. "Pancakes?"

The Prussian laughed. "So predictable. Okay, pancakes it is!"

It was when the Canadian slipped out, that his phone, kept on the bag at their table, buzzed. And buzzed. Multiple times.

"What's this?" Gilbert muttered to himself, picking it up. The phone was on vibrate, and the way it was buzzing, it sounded like someone was calling him. When he glanced at the screen, he frowned slightly. No, not calling...someone was texting him. Repeatedly. He recognised the name.

Ivan.

**Hi, Matvey. Things have been bad. **

**I'm okay. **

**I'll come to school tomorrow.**

**Don't worry about me. :) :) **

**Tell you about it later? **

**I think I off-load on you too much...**

**But you're the best! You really are! What would I do without you?**

Gilbert growled to himself, closed the text window and almost slammed the phone onto the table. This was Matthew's life. He had no right to snoop. What did it matter if that stupid, sadistic asshole was friends with his Birdie? Gilbert didn't care. They were just friends, after all. Friends!

_It's like he doesn't care about how I was bullied, _Gilbert thought bitterly, losing his appetite. And here he was, thinking that Matthew and Ivan weren't friends anymore...

The Canadian returned, smiling as he did. "Hey, did you place our orders?"

"Hmm?" Gilbert asked. "Oh, I forgot."

Maybe it was his tone, because Matthew frowned at him. "Is everything alright?"

"..._Ja._" Gilbert forced a smile. "Everything is as awesome as always."

* * *

Nostalgia basically _attacked _Arthur as he walked up the once-familiar path. It was making him _ill. _Physically, emotionally, mentally. The image of the huge manor, with its long gravel pathway and marble statues, the artistically carved Renaissance-style fountain, the French windows, and the expanse of pure green that was the lawn.

They used to _play _in that lawn. Water-pistol battles and fights with plastic swords, mud-throwing competitions and treasure hunts. Their favourite game was Pirates, Arthur remembered. Francis always lost in the end, though. But he still loved it. The Englishman could tell. Ah, it was in the fountain, there, that Arthur had tripped, fallen, and broken his foot. And there, under that oak tree, that was where Francis had been when he got stung by a bee, right on his nose. How he'd wailed about his 'gorgeous face' being scarred for life.

Two hours had passed since school had closed for the day, and Arthur was ten minutes early for the drama club meeting at Francis's huge house. Francis's father, Louis Bonnefoy, ran some sort of manufacturing company, and his mother, Colette, had once been a socialite. Arthur could barely remember their faces.

He'd stood awkwardly at the large cast iron gates for a moment, until a security guard had shown up and buzzed him in. Then came the long, long, long walk up to the house. It felt even longer, because Arthur was extremely nervous. His stomach was twisting and knotting. It had been too long since he'd been here, and he wasn't sure he was welcome anymore.

_How positively archaic, _Arthur thought as his fingers curled around the brass knocker. This was such a typical French villa. What the hell was it doing in the middle of the city? (Though, to be fair, Francis's house was a good distance away from civilisation. It had taken Arthur half an hour in a train and ten minutes of walking to get here.)

He didn't have to knock. There was a doorbell. It looked out of place against the old-fashioned beauty of the house, but he didn't care about that right now. He pressed it.

There must have been a camera at the door. There _had _to have been. These were rich people, and rich people were paranoid about who came to their houses. Arthur had become fuzzy on the details of the place. He did remember Francis's room, though. They'd had a lot of good memories there.

When the door opened, the blonde arsehole was standing there, customary flirtatious smile on his face. "_Ooh la, la,_ look who's here early!" Behind Francis stood a butler—an actual _butler_—who seemed a little confused at the Young Master Bonnefoy opening the door himself.

Francis ushered him in, and almost thrust him before the butler. A bald man with slight wrinkles and dark eyes. "Ambroise, do you remember _mon ami, _Arthur?"

The butler stared at Francis, then at Arthur, and his eyes widened in recognition. "Oh, Master Kirkland! It's been so long, I almost didn't realise it was you!"

Ambroise. Of course. Arthur remembered now.

"Ah, haha," the Englishman said, awkward, "How do you do, Mr. Chevalier?"

Ambroise was a Frenchman, but he spoke like he was from Buckingham Palace. Arthur remembered this used to irk Francis to no end, but the blonde seemed to have come to terms with it a long time ago. "I'm all right, Master Kirkland. And yourself?"

"Fine, fine."

Francis seemed to have turned bored of these pleasantries. Saying something in French to Ambroise (Arthur picked up the French word for 'tea' and…something about _croissants avec de la confiture_) he caught Arthur by the hand and pulled him passed the hallway and into the foyer.

From the inside, Francis's house seemed even grander. Cream walls, polished wooden tables, roses in fine china vases, paintings in carved frames, a deep red carpeted floor, spiral staircase…taking all of this into account, it really came as no surprise that Francis's birthday present had been a silver Mercedes. "You remember your way around here?" he asked, giving a good-natured, teasing, smile to Arthur.

"…Somewhat," the Englishman replied, earnest. Despite all the pranks they'd been playing on each other recently, Arthur was a little surprised at Francis's friendly behaviour. Well, as friendly as Francis could get, anyway.

"Onhonohon!"

Arthur always got a little nervous when Francis laughed like that. The Frenchman's pale blue eyes were twinkling. Arthur forced away a grimace. Francis said, "The others will be arriving soon. Just the core team."

"The core team?"

"_Oui. _You, me, Elizabeta, Lili, Vash, Neel, Feliks, and Magnus, who is also a new member."

"Magnus?" Arthur searched his memory. "The guy from Denmark? The one who laughs too much?"

"_Oui, _Magnus Densen. And Berwald might come too."

Arthur almost choked on thin air. "Berwald _acts?!_ He's so…taciturn!"

Francis laughed. "_Non_. He's in charge of making our sets. That is our core team. Some of us act—like you, you will be acting—but _all _of us put in the work. Backstage, organising the script, technical things, choreography…Elizabeta is very good at advertising our plays. Feliks designs our costumes. All of us contribute in some way. Of course, we will be holding another round of auditions, to find actors for the roles we can't fill." He waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry, _cher, _we will give you a proper orientation."

Francis took the opportunity to put his hand on the small of Arthur's back. The Englishman pushed him away. Laughing, the Frenchman led Arthur to a sitting room, (real leather armchairs!). They sat around a table, with French windows overlooking the beautiful lawn, when Ambriose showed up with a plate of croissants and jam. Plus tea, for Arthur. How thoughtful.

"_Mon ami, _it has been too long since you've had _good _food. If you keep eating your scones and haggis, you will surely get an upset stomach! Help yourself to homemade croissants." Francis waggled his eyebrows as Arthur turned an interesting shade of pink.

"Shut up, Frog. For your information, haggis is delicious."

Francis made a gagging noise.

Once more, the nostalgia threatened to consume Arthur, body and soul.

* * *

**A/N: Isn't FrUK the sweetest? (After Spamano, of course! :P ) I was going to make this longer, but then I got tired. Sigh. College can be such a pain in the neck sometimes. **

**Thanks for reading. Please review :) **

**(By the way, I've changed the summary. Is it better now?) **


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: I can make Indian jokes. I'm Indian. *Laughs***

* * *

Arthur was having the time of his life.

Everyone arrived at more or less the same time, except for Neel. They sat in Francis's huge room, (four-poster bed, more paintings on the walls, a polished rosewood desk set, a huge wardrobe, a plasma TV and an expensive-looking computer). All of them were sipping wine, all except for Lili, who stuck to Coke. Elizabeta was talking to Vash about something, Magnus Densen was apparently friends with stoic Berwald—and was teasing him about his Finnish boyfriend, Tino—Francis was 'onhonhon'-ing to a funny story Feliks was telling him.

Basically, Arthur was enjoying the show. They seemed like a nice bunch of people, cohesive and friendly. The only thing that gave off a slight hint of tension was the stiffness between Elizabeta and Francis. But then, Arthur knew about the rumors. The Hungarian had been dating Roderich behind Antonio's back. And Antonio was one of Francis's best friends. Still, the Frenchman was brilliant at keeping things professional. Arthur was honestly impressed.

"Where's Neel?" the Englishman asked. "He's late."

"He'll take another fifteen minutes," Elizabeta replied, sounding unconcerned.

"In the meantime," Francis said, taking a sip of his wine, "Let's explain to the new members how things work." At the sound of this, Arthur and Magnus looked up, looked at Francis, and then looked at each other. The Frenchman continued, "As I was telling Arthur, some of us act. Some of us work backstage. When we decide on a play and a date for it—I already have one in mind—we'll set up auditions for those roles we cannot fill ourselves."

"Gawd, Francis, I hope you don't have, like, some stupidly flamboyant play in mind," Feliks complained. "Do you know how hard it was to get all the outfits right last year? When you decided to do a rendition of _Chicago_?"

"But you enjoyed it," Elizabeta said.

"I enjoyed it because I forced Liet to wear all the women's outfits to see if they worked." Feliks had a smirk on his face.

"_Oui, _and then he quit the group," Francis sighed.

Feliks snickered. "He was an actor! He should have been game. Oh well, whatever."

The doorbell rang.

"That will be Neel," Vash commented, his voice cool and detached.

"He's really late," Arthur commented. No-one said anything. Vash just rolled his eyes.

When the Indian did walk into Francis's room, he dropped his backpack on the floor, like everyone else, and smiled. "Sorry I'm late. I had to drop my little sister to her dance class." He sat on the floor next to Magnus.

"Neel follows Indian Standard Time," Francis joked. "Half an hour late to everything."

"Hilarious, Francis," the Indian muttered, rolling his eyes. This seemed to be an old joke between them. Between _all _of them. Elizabeta snickered, Vash looked unimpressed, Lili smiled, and Feliks laughed. Berwald didn't look even slightly ruffled by any of this, although Magnus cackled in mirth.

"Now that everyone is here," Francis began, when the laughter died down, "I was thinking we could do a Shakespeare play. Romeo and Juliet?"

Arthur noticed how, when discussing business, everyone straightened up. Lili took out a notebook and pencil, wrote the date and team members on the top of the page, and began to actually take notes.

Feliks and Neel made a face.

"Francis, man…" Feliks said, looking uncomfortable. Neel had an awkward frown on his face, like he was trying not to offend anyone, but didn't know how to go about it.

"What's wrong with Shakespeare?" Arthur protested. "The Bard is uncontested!"

"I grant you that," Neel said, hesitant, "Arthur, we're in the same literature class. Trust me, I agree with you. But every time we have a Shakespeare play, we barely have an audience."

"And don't even get me _started _on the costumes," Feliks cried, throwing his hands up in annoyance. "I can make them, I can borrow them from costume stores, but, like, the actors can be such whiny bitches. All the guys complain about looking too girly and all the girls complain about not looking girly enough. Like, seriously, it's a pain."

"And anyway," Magnus piped in, "Romeo and Juliet…is lame."

"I agree," Vash muttered, "Everyone does that. If we _are _going with Shakespeare, we should do something more interesting." Looking at Arthur, the blonde said, "Merchant of Venice?"

"Oh," the Englishman exclaimed softly, "That's my favourite one."

"Francis…" Lili began, "I'm with Neel and Feliks. Nobody ever wants to watch Shakespeare. I hate to say this, but most people think Shakespeare is boring."

The Frenchman was quiet. All he did was take another sip of his wine. Then, he looked up at Arthur. There was something very meaningful in his eyes, but the Englishman couldn't quite place it. It made Arthur feel very conscious of himself. Francis had this tendency to give smouldering gazes to people.

"…We could, um…" Arthur began, "We could jazz it up a bit." Arthur had actually been toying with this idea for a writing experiment. Might as well suggest it right now.

"What do you mean, _mon ami?" _

"Make Shakespeare appeal to everyone. Get rid of the archaic language, add well-placed jokes. Probably even do a musical."

Neel's golden eyes lit up. "I like the sound of that. Shakespearean musicals? We could write some really funny songs."

"It would have to be a comedy, of course," Arthur supplied. "Tragedies would be too depressing."

Francis's smouldering gaze had returned. Arthur felt his cheeks become warm.

And so they talked. They planned. They laughed. The members of this club worked brilliantly with each other. That much was obvious. Not only were all of them friends, but they also had wonderful ideas, and great ways to execute them. By the end of it, Arthur had made a whole lot of new friends. He was in charge of rewriting A Comedy of Errors, complete with funny songs and dry, British humour. They worked out a date, and Elizabeta started spouting ideas about how to make people interested in watching it. Berwald didn't really say anything, except for a well-placed nod or shake of his head.

The hours passed.

And as they did, Arthur screwed up.

Really, really badly.

* * *

The door opened, and Matthew entered. He looked absolutely exhausted, and was speaking in low tones on his phone. Alfred barely glanced up from the video game he was playing, until Kiku paused it to greet the Canadian.

If Matthew wasn't kissing Gilbert by the door, it meant that he'd walked home. Alfred knew this by now. His younger brother nodded at the pair of them, smiling lightly in their direction, before his face turned grave once more. His skin actually looked a little ashen as he muttered under his breath, pressing the phone closer to his ear as he walked up to his bedroom.

Alfred sighed, turning his attention back to the screen. "Well, that's odd."

"Is he okay?"

"Just busy," Alfred muttered, turning to his new friend. "Un-pause the game, dude!"

In fact, Kiku stood and switched it off. "It's getting late. I need to be home soon."

"Awwh, not cool! I was totally gonna kick your ass."

The Japanese teen had the smallest of grins on his face. "Oh, rearry? Because the rast time I checked, I was winning."

Alfred pouted.

Kiku laughed.

"You can keep the game for tonight, if you want," the dark-haired male offered. "You rearry seem to rike it."

Alfred's eyes widened. "Really? Dude, that's awesome! You're so cool! I'll totally return it to you tomorrow. That great?"

"It's fine," Kiku smiled. Picking up his bag from the floor, he said, "I had fun today."

"Oh, me too. You're a really cool dude. We should do this again sometime."

"I agree."

And when the Japanese teen had gone, Alfred almost began playing once more. Almost. He stopped himself just as he was about to restart the game, pushed himself off the couch and trudged up to Matthew's room.

The door was shut, but unlocked. He peered in. "Mattie? Sup, dude?"

His adoptive Canadian brother was still on the phone. His eyes were very, very serious, and when he glanced towards Alfred, they somehow seemed to turn steely.

"Yeah, hold on a minute," Matthew said into his phone, before taking it off his ear and covering it with his hand. In a low voice, he said to Alfred, "Al, I'm busy, okay? Tell me when mom gets back, though. I'll help set the table."

"…Are you alright, Matthew?" _You have that look on your face. One I haven't seen in a long time. _

"I'm _busy,_" the Canadian snapped, standing up now. "I'm on the _phone._"

Hands up in the air, Alfred said, "Alright, alright! Don't get so pissy!" He backed away from the room and closed the door behind him, now thoroughly concerned. Matthew was being…odd. Actually, there was nothing overtly strange about this, but it was just…a feeling. A feeling. Alfred was worried. Instinctively, he knew something wasn't right.

* * *

"One…two…three…four…five…"

Antonio had just been yelled at. For fifteen minutes. He could still hear the sharp snap of his mother's voice, screaming at him in Spanish, to _clean his room, RIGHT NOW. _Argh. Antonio hated cleaning! It was such a pain, and it didn't make much of a difference, anyway. Things always got messy once more.

"Six…" Antonio muttered, rummaging through his wardrobe to find his sixth pair of jeans. He was trying to clean his cupboard, without much success. A pile of crumpled clothes lay in a heap on the floor. His bed, which had been freshly made, was strewn with socks and underwear. At least his desk was in order; he'd dusted it and organised all his books neatly. His guitar case rested against the wall on the other side of the room, safe from the mess he'd made while trying to square up his cupboard.

"Where's the sixth one!?" he sighed loudly, throwing his hands up in exasperation. His jeans were missing? Really? Where could they possibly be? He'd checked the clothesline, he'd checked the washing machine, and he'd checked with his _mother. _Even she hadn't known where they'd vanished. Which meant things were serious.

Antonio sighed, trying to remember the last time he'd worn that particular pair of jeans. They were black, faded with age, and perpetually wrinkled, but in a comforting kind of way. Huh. Actually, it had been _quite _a while since he'd even _seen _the damn things.

Where could they—oh.

"Roderich," Antonio whispered, his heartbeat quickening. That day when they'd gone out to a party…and then Antonio had slept over at Roderich's home because his parents had been away…

Oh fuck.

Never mind. He didn't need six pairs of jeans anyway. People got by with less. Roderich could keep Antonio's favourite pair of jeans as a reminder of their once meaningful relation—_Lovi would probably kill me if I let Roderich get away with this. I should get my stuff back from him…_

Antonio groaned, flopping down on his messy bed. In his head, he could imagine Lovino Vargas lecturing him about growing a pair and facing 'The Piano Bastard', because Roderich had no right to keep his things, and he needed to man up and demand his articles back.

Well, Lovino In Antonio's Head had a point…

The Spaniard groaned once more, taking his phone out of his pocket. He sat up, toes curling in anticipation as he opened up a text window. _Mi Amado Roderich_. That was how the contact had been saved. Antonio made a face and changed it to _R. Edelstein. _

Then, he sent the message. Antonio spent ten minutes just agonising over how to frame it. He swallowed a couple of times, constructing complicated sentences in his head. This was hard. He didn't even _want _to do this. (Were a pair of jeans worth this crap?)

Antonio made sure his text sounded extremely formal.

**Hello, Roderich. I need my things back. When can I come get them? Thank you. **

In hindsight, he shouldn't have added that last 'thank you'. He wasn't asking for a favour. He was stating a demand.

To Antonio's enormous surprise, Roderich answered almost immediately.

**Tomorrow, 6.00 PM. After my music practice. You know when I'm free, don't you? **

The Spaniard blinked at the text message. 'You know when I'm free, don't you?' what the hell was that supposed to mean? Antonio didn't have the Austrian's goddamn schedule memorised. (Well, okay, he _used to_ be able to rattle it off in his sleep, but that didn't matter now.) Just because he knew how long Roderich's piano class would take didn't mean a damn thing.

It wasn't like Antonio was interested anymore. Roderich had better understand that. He wasn't pining after that snooty, aristocratic bastard like he used to. Antonio had moved the hell on.

So, it was with this mindset, that he punched in his taciturn response.

**Fine. **

Staring at the text window, Antonio felt a sense of empowerment. Fine, fine indeed.

* * *

When Ludwig went up to his brother's room, it was to call him for dinner. Their mother had been hollering his name for ten minutes, their father was starting to lose his patience, and Ludwig, being Ludwig, went upstairs to yell at Gilbert.

But when he actually saw his brother, his anger dissipated.

Gilbert was lying on his bed, staring at his ceiling, with an expression of such perfect blankness that it actually made Ludwig want to shudder. His red eyes were glazed in thought as he absently petted Gilbird's head. The little canary was perched on the albino. It was a really awkward position, because Gilbert was lying flat, and the bird was somehow balancing on his shoulder blade, his talons uncomfortably close to the teen's collarbone.

"Are you coming for dinner, or what?" Ludwig snapped, though he didn't sound half as angry as he'd expected to sound.

"…Hmm?" Gilbert said, his eyes not leaving the ceiling. "Hey, Luddy…You know what...?"

"…_Ja_?"

"Isn't it cute that Feli goes out of his way to spend time with Antonio?"

"What?" Ludwig said sharply, his eyes narrowing. "What are you going on about?"

"Nothing," Gilbert sighed. "Trying to distract myself from Matt—doesn't matter." He sat up, and Gilbird chirped in annoyance, flapping his wings and soaring to his perch near the ceiling. Gilbert hated caging his pet, and the canary was rather well-behaved, so most of the time, Ludwig's brother got away with letting Gilbird fly around the house unsupervised. "Dinner, right?" he said.

"Yes." _What was he saying about Feli and Antonio? No, I don't want to know. _Ludwig swallowed. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah, yeah, I am." And with that, Gilbert pushed himself off his bed and walked out of the room, deliberately ruffling Ludwig's impeccable hair in the process.

* * *

Slowly, everyone started to leave. Elizabeta first, saying she had a date with Roderich (Arthur noticed how Francis momentarily tensed up), Vash and Lili followed suit, along with Feliks, Berwald, Magnus and Neel. Pretty soon, it was only Arthur and Francis, in the Frenchman's huge, empty house.

Well, not fully empty. There was Ambriose the butler, and a couple of maids Arthur didn't recognise. Francis sighed as he picked up the empty wine bottle and sniffed it. "There's nothing left," he complained.

"It's surprising that we finished only _one _bottle, because everybody was drinking from it. Quite generously, might I add." Arthur moved towards the French window. It had begun raining again. Pouring. Really strange weather.

"You most of all," Francis teased. "How many glasses did you have? Two? Three? _Mon ami, _we both know you can't hold your liquor. I've seen you drunk at so many parties now."

Arthur spluttered in protest, but it was _true. _While he wasn't totally drunk, he was feeling pleasantly light. Tipsy. Mildly unsteady. In a nice way, though. He wouldn't have minded another glass of wine, but knew better to request one. To be drunk around Francis was just _asking _for trouble.

"Where are your parents?" Arthur questioned, his eyes briefly turning away from the window to meet the Frenchman's. "It's been so long since I've spoken to them."

"Papa is in…London, I think? Oh, no, that was five days ago. Now he's in Shanghai. And Maman is…actually, I don't know. Probably in Paris or Florence, depending on which boyfriend she wanted to spend her night with. I don't keep track."

The tone Francis used was conversational. Downright _bored. _It didn't hold even the slightest bit of sorrow or resentment. In fact, he said all of it in one lazy drawl as he placed the dirty wine glasses on the tray on the floor. Only when he sensed Arthur's shocked silence did he look up from his ministrations and blink. "What is it?"

Arthur just gaped at Francis. "How can you say something like that so casually?"

Francis looked genuinely confused. "You _know _how they are. Why does this surprise you? I mean, I understand why it would surprise someone else…but you've known them since we were children."

"Yes, but…" and Arthur trailed off, looking at Francis in astonishment. His own family life was very, very different. Arthur had three brothers: Allistor, Dylan, and little Peter, and he had an older sister, Gráinne. All of them hated him. Well, 'hated' was a strong word. They just…they got on his last nerves. Their parents were half batty trying to keep five children under control. What with Allistor's irresponsible drinking and Dylan always getting into fights, Gráinne's nights out with her friends and Peter's over-ambitious jabber, it often felt like Arthur was the only _normal _Kirkland child in the house.

He often craved for Francis's independence, his solitude. In conversations like these, though, Arthur remembered what price the Frenchman's freedom came at.

"Black Sheep," Francis teased gently, "Are you hungry? I could eat something right now."

The Englishman spun around (his wine-addled brain making him sway a little). "What did you call me, Frog?" His eyes then widened. "Hey, _frog. _Do you still have it?"

Francis frowned. "…What?"

"The damn…The…what was it called?" Arthur grumbled, marching over to the huge wardrobe and throwing it open. Francis's interesting assortment of clothes were neatly folded and tucked in various plastic covers. Arthur didn't have the heart to toss things about.

"What are you doing?" Francis muttered, running over and shutting the cupboard. "It's not polite to open people's wardrobes!"

"The _frog_," Arthur snapped, "Froggy Froglit or whatever you used to call him. Goddamnit, Francis, your frog plushie!"

All at once, the Frenchman turned beetroot. He let out an undignified squawk of protest, crossing his arms and pouting. "For your information, Arthur, his name was _Froggy Froglit Grenouille. _If you're going to say his name, say it _properly._ And anyway, I gave him as charity ages ago!"

"You gave Froggy Froglit away!?"

"Froggy Froglit Grenouille!"

"Whatever!"Arthur paced around the room, getting more and more agitated. Francis had to whisk the tray of wine glasses away from the floor, depositing it onto the desk, lest Arthur knock it over. "I can't believe you did that! That plushie is the reason I started calling you Frog in the first place. You _loved _it."

"Why does this bother you so much?" Francis questioned, raising an eyebrow. "It was just a stuffed toy…"

"Well, _I _loved it too."

And as soon as Arthur said that, he stopped, his mouth half-open in surprise. Francis seemed to sense the change in atmosphere (of course he did, the perceptive bastard), and took a tentative step forward. "I thought you hated Froggy Froglit Grenouille," the Frenchman commented, sending a look of curious amusement towards Arthur. The smile in his pale blue eyes made the Englishman's heart race.

"D-Don't get me wrong. Froggy Froglit was the ugliest plushie I'd ever seen. It's just…I mean…" And then, Arthur stopped. "Oh, for pity's sake," he snapped.

And then, Arthur Kirkland marched forward, grabbed Francis by the collar, pulled him close, and kissed him on the lips.

* * *

Francis's lips were soft, almost feminine in their texture. But this passive stance didn't last for long. Being the sort of person he was, Francis was quick to take control of the kiss, his hands flying to Arthur's hair. The experience was like thunder, lightning and rain. It was loud, awakening and safe.

And then, Arthur pulled away. His green eyes were bright in horror as he stared at Francis. The Frenchman looked momentarily startled, but that quickly changed to a sly smile. "That was a pleasant surprise," he teased.

"Shit," Arthur gasped, his lips still wet. "Shit."

Francis's eyes widened, and he took a step towards the Englishman. "Arthur—"

"Fuck. I am so sorry."

"No, really, you don't—"

"I have to go." And Arthur snatched his bag from the floor and darted past Francis, out of the room, down the stairs, pushing past Ambriose, throwing the house door open and barreling headfirst into the thunderstorm outside. Tears mixed with rainwater as he ran down the long footpath, past the fountain and the huge iron gates.

Was that Francis's voice, calling after him? He didn't know, he didn't care. Maybe it was the wine in his system. That had to be it. Nothing else would have made him bold enough to act on his feelings. Not in such a brash manner. Arthur had been planning to do this gradually. First joining the drama club, rekindling his friendship with Francis, and then, slowly, gradually—

What did it matter now? Arthur had ruined _everything. _Francis would be disgusted with him.

Arthur just ran, and ran, and ran.

* * *

"You _have _to eat your vegetables, Alfred," their mother said. Amelia Jones was a pretty woman, with blonde hair and blue eyes. She'd once been the belle of the town. Now, however, she had a frightening glare on her face as she stared at her older son. "You have an extremely unhealthy diet."

"But _mooooom_," Alfred whined, stabbing a piece of broccoli with his fork. Beside him, Matthew ate quietly, not looking anyone in the eye.

Amelia gave him another severe look, at that was enough to silence the teen. He sulked, making faces as he chewed the offending vegetable. He'd polished all the meat off his plate, but Amelia had absolutely refused to give him seconds unless he ate all his greens as well. This was a constant and unending battle at the Jones-William's house.

Alfred and his stupid veggies. _Honestly._

And then, the doorbell rang. Once, twice, three times.

"Who on earth could it be at this time?" Amelia muttered, looking at the clock on the wall.

"I'll get it!" Alfred cried, jumping to his feet in eagerness to get away from his dinner plate. The table shook slightly as his palms slammed against it, and Matthew only paused for it to settle down before resuming with his dinner.

The American dashed to the door and threw it open. "Artie? What's—dude, you're all wet. _Dude, _what's wrong?" And Alfred had pulled the Englishman inside. Arthur was shivering with cold, his lips blue and his eyes red and puffy.

Amelia jumped up. "Goodness, Arthur," she cried. "Alfred, set him down on the couch, I'm getting a towel."

Matthew, too, seemed temporarily broken out of his reverie. He got to his feet and went over to Arthur. Alfred was peeling away his soaked jacket, trying to get him to talk, but the Englishman's teeth were chattering so much that he could barely speak. Amelia returned moments later with two thick towels in her hands.

Alfred actually wrapped Arthur completely in a towel, almost like he was making a burrito. Then, the American pulled him to his feet and helped him up the stairs. Not an easy task, because Arthur's whole body was quaking in cold.

"I'll make some hot chocolate," Matthew said quietly, though nobody heard him.

In Alfred's bedroom, Arthur was given a fresh set of the American's clothes. They were a little big for him, but they were dry, which was really what mattered right now. Alfred waited outside the door for Arthur to finish getting ready. When the Englishman was finally done, Alfred found him shivering under the blankets of his bed.

"Artie…"

"C-can I s-s-sleep here t-tonight?" Arthur managed through chattering teeth.

"Dude, that's the lamest question ever. Of course you can. Want me to call your peeps?"

"Y-yes."

"What should I tell them?"

But Arthur just shrugged, pulling the blankets tighter around him. Matthew came in, holding a steaming mug of hot coco. He managed to coax Arthur to sit up and drink it, though the Englishman's hand were shaking so much he could barely hold the thing. Amelia came in at that point, and held the cup for him.

When Alfred got off the phone with Arthur's mother, he turned to the Englishman and said, "Done. I told your mom you wanted to stay over here and study. She believed me." Alfred snickered at his own ingenuity. Amelia shot him a look.

"T-thanks."

"Drink up, honey," Amelia said, still holding the cup for him. "It's awful weather outside."

Obediently, Arthur took a few sips of the hot chocolate, sighing in relief as he did. Alfred stepped forward. "I'll handle it, mom," he said, his voice oddly serious. Matthew, too, looked up, before gently taking his mother's hand and leading her out of the door.

It took a while for Arthur to warm up. Alfred had to switch on the radiator and cover his friend with two more extra blankets, before Arthur finally stopped shaking. He still looked very pale, though. At least he kept sipping his hot chocolate.

"I reckon I'll get the flu now," he muttered, rubbing his nose.

"Yup. Who asked you to go running around in the rain like this?" Alfred sat against his bedpost. His shoulders were touching Arthur's. The Englishman seemed to appreciate the extra body warmth.

"I fucked up," Arthur whispered, and without warning, his lower lip trembled. With his head bowed, he repeated once again, "I fucked up _so _badly, Alfred."

"Dude…what the hell happened?"

"I…" and Arthur swallowed. "…kissed Francis."

Alfred jolted in surprise. "You _what?_"

"Don't make me repeat it."

"I thought you hated the guy!"

"I…don't." Arthur said the words so softly that Alfred had to lean in to hear them. "Actually, it's quite the contrary. Why do you think I even joined the drama club, Alfred?"

"Change of scene?" the American said, but his tone held a touch of humour, a sign that he was teasing his friend. "That's what you told me."

"I lied, okay? Over the summer, I realised that I liked that stupid Frog, and so I tried to do something about it, for once. Look how it turned out." Taking a deep breath, Arthur continued, "I found this old box in the attic. Full of baby pictures, you know? I can't tell you how many of them had Francis and I playing, or fighting, or just generally having fun. To be completely honest with you, Alfred, I've missed him. I've missed him plenty. But I can't really say that to him, can I? Because he can't stand the sight of me. And now...well, like I said, he can't stand the sight of me. We seldom get along. I've just made things a hundred times worse."

"But dude, it's _Francis Bonnefoy._ He'll sleep with anything that moves. He's not even good for you."

"That's not true. Francis is a hopeless romantic. He takes relationships very seriously. You know how he was like with Jeanne, right?"

"Oh, yeah."

"…But I messed up everything. He's not going to want to look at me."

"…Because you kissed him?"

"Yes." Arthur shook his head. "And then I cussed about it. And then I ran. And because he's Francis Bonnefoy, and he hates Arthur Kirkland. And he has the right to. Arthur Kirkland was an absolute arse to him, wasn't he?" With a soft whine, he cried, "Dear god, I'm referring to myself in the third person."

"But did he kiss you back?"

"He's _Francis, _Alfred. Of course he bloody did."

"Fair enough."

Arthur groaned, shoving his half-empty cup of hot chocolate into Alfred's hands, and then dropping his head to his palms. "Forget it. I'm just going to pretend it never happened."

"Bad idea."

But Arthur had already flattened himself onto the bed. Snatching the corners of the blanket, he pulled it over his head, saying, "I don't want to talk about it. Good night."

"It's really early, you know."

"Good night, Alfred."

"Jeez, okay. Sleep well."

* * *

It was later, much, much later, that Alfred decided to go to sleep. Arthur had basically hogged the entire single bed, so the American had to pull out an extra mattress from their spare room and drop it on the floor. He'd put some bed sheets and a pillow. As Arthur slept, Alfred set up Kiku's videogame in the small TV in his room, and played it on mute.

It was half past one in the morning when the American finally felt the slightest bit sleepy. He was used to sleeping late, though. Matthew and his mother had already nodded off.

Switching off the game, Alfred found out a pair of boxers and an old t-shirt to sleep in, went to the bathroom and readied himself for bed. He brushed, splashed water on his face, and yawned. As he was walking out, he happened to pass Matthew's room.

Just like before, the door was shut. But what made Alfred pause was the sounds coming from the other side.

The sound of…crying?

What the hell?

"Matthew?" he called out, opening the door. "Mattie?" But the Canadian's room was dark. The light from the hallway spilled onto his brother's bed. Matthew's back was to the door, but he seemed to be fast asleep.

Alfred frowned, backing away and softly closing the door behind him. He would really have to speak to his brother tomorrow. Something was up. Of that, Alfred was sure.

* * *

**A/N: Here's some USUK friendship, because I absolutely **_**adore **_**these two. I don't even mind USUK as a pairing that much, although I prefer FrUK a whole lot more. The FACE family is always awesomer with FrUK and America-Canada brotherly bonding, anyway. (Although there is no FACE here. I really ought to write an FACE fic one of these days…)**

**Anyway, sorry if the chapter sucked. I was pretty unwell while writing it. Like Arthur, I ended up getting stuck in pouring rain, and got a cold. **

**This fic had a pretty important FrUK scene, as you can see. I had to speed things up for this pairing, because I unintentionally failed to give them the focus they needed right at the beginning. Oh well, live and learn. **

**I'm sure some of you have guessed where the PruCan is going by now. If you have, though, keep it to yourselves! :P I'm really, really excited about the PruCan arc, and the Spamano is going to pick up soon, too. (*Evil laughter*). **

**Thanks for reading! Please review :) **

**By the way, I wrote a Spain/Austria Habsburg one-shot! It's (very creatively) called 'The House of Habsburg'. Don't you worry, it's actually a fic about how their relationship _doesn't _work, (for all of you Spamano/PruAus/AusHun) shippers out there. It has light mentions of Spamano and AusHun as well. I would be delighted if you could check it out. Thank yooou :)**


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Depression is a very common problem with teenagers these days. Different people have different experiences with it, although there are some general symptoms. The physical exhaustion, erratic and sudden emotional reactions, these might _not_ happen to everyone. When you're depressed, however, you do tend to be disinterested in everything and you care very little about your appearance. ****What is depicted in this chapter has been drawn from my own battles with depression, although the scenes here have been exaggerated somewhat. **  


******By the way, the song I've referred to in this chapter is _If I Die Young _by The Band Perry. It's beautiful. Listen to it. **

**This chapter has a LOT of important PruCan and Spamano scenes. **

**Also, a special hug to Thalie14, who really, really helped me with a **_**lot **_**of the French translations for the previous chapters! :) **

**Warnings for this chapter: depression, self-harm, and a heck ton of drama. **

* * *

Matthew did not want to open his eyes. The very thought of it was exhausting. His body felt heavy, like a stone submerged in water. His limbs were like lead, pinning him down to the softness of his covers. The thick blanket and fluffy pillows seemed even more inviting, and though he was able to wake up, he was beyond tired.

Tired. Like he'd not slept in a week, like he'd been running in the sun, like he hadn't eaten in four days. Tired.

He didn't feel sick, though. And he'd cried himself to sleep the previous night. In fact, ever since his date with Gilbert yesterday—ever since he'd read Ivan's messages—he'd been feeling a little put out. Matthew had spent hours on the phone with the Russian, just listening and listening and listening. His head had started to hurt, but he still kept up his encouragement and patience. Ivan needed this.

Vaguely, Matthew registered that there was a familiar melancholy in his heart. An emotion so lulling, but at the same time, so draining, that the Canadian could do nothing but turn on his side and pretend to be asleep again. He was late for school. That was easy to make out from the sunlight bursting through his curtains. Matthew didn't care.

He didn't care about anything.

He must have fallen asleep again, because he felt himself been shaken awake with Alfred's rough hands. "Mattie, dude, get the hell up. We're _late._"

Alfred.

Alfred, Alfred, Alfred.

His brother was perceptive, more than he let on. Matthew wasn't in the mood for the American's suffocating concern. He just wanted to be left alone. He was tired and sad, and it wouldn't take much for those two adjectives to combine and create _anger. _Matthew knew the drill. He knew it all too well.

"Mattie!" Alfred snapped—yes, _snapped_; Matthew could distinguish annoyance under his cheerful voice. The American's hands curled around Matthew's wrists, and without warning, Alfred's unnatural strength had hauled the Canadian into a sitting position.

Matthew's head spun for a second. His body felt physically weak. He just wanted to go back to bed. He couldn't deal with Alfred or Gilbert or Ivan or the whole circus today.

"Wake up," Alfred said, and there was no humour in his blue eyes. "Come on. Get up, brush, bathe, eat. We're late. You overslept."

Something about this scenario was familiar. Oh, yes. Alfred had become almost aggressively strict towards Matthew's behaviour once before. A few years ago. They'd been sixteen. That was when Matthew had come down with serious depression. Therapy had helped, but it had been Alfred's forcefulness that had pushed Matthew into a sense of normalcy.

The depression had pervaded, though. The therapy managed to stop the self-harm urges, but Matthew was always tired, listless, disinterested. He participated in things more, but not by much. And then, he'd met Gilbert. And things had improved. Improved so much, and so quickly, that it had left everyone astounded. It was one of the reasons Alfred had tolerated Gilbert, despite not really liking him too much. Besides, they became friends eventually, didn't they? (Matthew doubted they were friends anymore, though.)

"Matthew Williams, _stop _spacing out." Alfred's face was very, very close to Matthew's. He looked decidedly unamused now. "Arthur's downstairs, waiting. Mom's already left for work. Are you listening to me? We're late for school."

There was no point protesting. If he even tried, Alfred would really lose it. His brother could be frightening when he was being protective…

"Alright, alright," Matthew mumbled, his voice softer than usual. "I'm up."

It took superhuman effort to even get out of bed. His whole body argued against it. He didn't feel like doing anything. At all. Ever. The bed looked so inviting. Blissful hours of sleep…of not having to _deal _with _things_…

It took Matthew longer than usual to brush. He didn't bother having a bath. He'd have one when he got back from school. The Canadian wore the first thing he found: a crumpled white t-shirt, a scruffy pair of jeans. But he didn't like his arms being so exposed with the short sleeves. So, Matthew pulled out an old grey sweatshirt and wore that as well.

When he got to the kitchen, Arthur was pacing about, looking at his watch. His clothes had dried overnight, and although he didn't look as 'proper' as he would have liked, he still appeared more-or-less respectably dressed. The teen sipped a cup of coffee, for they didn't have any tea at their house. Alfred, meanwhile, was prattling on about baseball or football or something…Matthew didn't care to listen in.

"Finally," Arthur muttered when Matthew entered the kitchen.

"Sorry," the Canadian replied. He looked at the food on the table. Three different kinds of cereals—all Alfred's choosing. Plus, cut fruit, milk, toast, sausages (_Oh, Gilbert_), eggs…the very thought of food repulsed him. Matthew didn't have the balls to look Alfred in the eye. "I'll pick up something in school," he lied. "Let's go."

"You aren't going to eat anything?" Alfred questioned, narrowing his eyes.

But Arthur didn't seem to sense the atmosphere. He looked tense as he snatched his schoolbag from the chair and swung it on his shoulder. "Alright. We're so late we might not even make it to class on time."

"Sorry," Matthew said once more, his limbs feeling heavier than ever before.

* * *

"We should go out tonight," Antonio declared as they entered the school. "We haven't done anything fun in _ages._" Both his friends looked absolutely miserable, and neither of them were being particularly talkative. It was freaking him out.

"Hmm?" Gilbert muttered. "I don't know, Toni…"

"I don't feel like it," Francis articulated as they reached their lockers.

"What's wrong with the both of you?" the Spaniard cried, flabbergasted. He gaped at his friends, both of them party animals. "Seriously, tell me what's going on!"

Gilbert looked like he hadn't slept. His skin was paler than usual, his red eyes puffy, his hair dishevelled. And he kept yawning. Francis, on the other hand, just looked morose. There was no other way to put it. His features were drawn and tired and _sad. _

"Nothing. I just didn't sleep well."

"Arthur kissed me."

"What?"

"What?"

"Yes."

Gilbert and Antonio blinked, looking at Francis in disbelief. Could this _get _any stranger? Francis's expression hovered between joy, pain and anger. It was the weirdest combination Antonio could ever think of. Finally settling on exasperation, the Frenchman said, "I think he was a little drunk, actually." And then he proceeded to narrate the events of the previous day in exorbitant detail. "So, yes, he kissed me, cussed, and bolted. And he wouldn't answer my phone calls."

"What are you going to do about it?" Antonio asked. Francis usually had solutions to all sorts of romantic problems. The Spaniard was sure he had a plan up his sleeve for this too. "Are you…you know, interested in pursuing anything with him?"

"Of course he is!" Gilbert said, some life returning to his face. "Right?" He gave Francis a look with a sideways tilt of his head.

"Yes," Francis admitted. "Dating Arthur…that would be a lot of fun. We would keep each other _thoroughly _entertained." There was a suggestive smirk playing on his lips. But the expression melted into something a lot more sober. "At the same time…"

"Yes?" Antonio asked, eager.

"Oh, who knows?" the Frenchman mused, waving his hand dismissively. He didn't feel like telling his friends just how horrified Arthur had looked yesterday. That kiss…the Englishman had been drunk. There was no other explanation.(Still, weren't people _honest _when they'd had too much to drink?) "I guess..." Francis said, a thoughtful frown on his features, "I guess I will find out today. I'll talk to him."

"Good luck, Franny!" Antonio cried.

"Yeah, man," Gilbert agreed. "_Viel Glück_!"

* * *

_A Few Hours Later_

* * *

"I will _not _allow you to get another goddamn B- on a test," Lovino snapped. They were sitting on the school terrace once more. A lunchbox with sliced tomatoes lay between them. The sky today was overcast, but that was to be expected after last night's tempest. The Italian pulled out a notebook from his bag, flipped it open to a certain page and shoved it into Antonio's hands. "Your problem is simple. Chemical equations. And I sat up all fucking night making an exercise sheet for you. You're going to sit here and solve these questions. _All _of these questions."

Antonio gingerly took the book from his hands. He wasn't in the mood to study. He wanted to play his music! He was in a good mood, mostly because he was going to face Roderich today, and he was going to _survive _it. Plus, Francis might get a boyfriend! Drinks all around!

"Don't give me that look," Lovino dared. "You're the dumbfuck who asked for my help in Chem. If you didn't want it, you shouldn't have fucking bothered. Now, _study. _We have history in forty-five minutes, and that's a hell of a lot of time. Don't fucking waste it."

"Awh, but Lovi…"

"No."

"Okay…" He still wanted music, though. So, Antonio picked up his phone and opened the Music Player. Lovino noticed and glared. "It's just some songs!" the Spaniard cried in defence. "You're being such a meanie!"

"Your grades, your funeral," Lovino muttered, taking out his rough notebook and a pencil. If Antonio noticed how he was doodling instead of solving homework or whatever, the Spaniard didn't comment on it. Lovino liked doodling. It was a lot of fun, even if Feliciano was better at it than him.

A lot of Spanish music bellowed out of Antonio's phone. Lovino understood snippets of it; he was studying Spanish as his second language, after all. Some songs, however, were in English. Some in German and French. His friends must have sent those to him. There was also a lot of instrumental stuff. Lovino recognised that salsa tune Antonio loved. There was something that resembled flamenco and tango as well. He really liked dance, didn't he?

Antonio had a slight frown on his face as he worked his way through Lovino's exercise sheet. The Italian had given questions that would increase in difficulty. The first five were easy. The next five required a bit more effort. The last five would _really _test Antonio. He was a good student, a smart one. And Lovino just _loved _teaching him. They had so much _fun. _

No, no, no, he definitely was NOT blushing.

Another song started to play. A tune, actually. Lovino almost dropped his pencil in surprise.

"Change that song," the Italian demanded.

Antonio glanced up from the notebook. Picking up his phone, his finger hovered over the pause button. "Why? I love it!"

"More dance music? Really? Just change it, fucktard."

"Don't you like it?" Antonio tilted his head to one side. "Lovi, you're drumming your fingers to it!" It was true. Lovino's fingers moved of their own accord, tapping against the pages of his notebook. This tune. Dammit.

"It's a tarantella tune," Lovino muttered. "Change it."

"Tarantella…?" Antonio said, frowning in confusion as he looked at Lovino and then at his phone. "How do you…Lovi…" and then his face lit up. Like a fucking Christmas tree. "Lovino! Do you _dance_?!"

"I don't!" Lovino whined.

"You do!"

Damn. Antonio was getting very good at spotting his lies.

"I—sometimes."

"YOU DANCE!?" And Antonio shot up, almost _jumping _on Lovino as he pulled him into a hug. An actual _hug._ The Italian almost fell sideways with the sheer force of Antonio's weight.

"Stop it! Don't touch me! Pervert!"

"Dance for me!" Antonio begged, his face pressed desperately against Lovino's shoulder. The Italian would have died of embarrassment right there. "Tarantella is the one dance I don't know! Dance for me! Let me see!"

"Will you shut up!" Lovino cried, trying and failing to push Antonio off him. "Dammit, you bastard!"

"Loooooviiiii—!"

"No! Antonio, it's personal, okay?"

"Lo—personal?" and the Spaniard actually let go, straightening up and blinking at Lovino. "Oh, you mean, it's supposed to be a secret?"

"Yes. And it's personal. I don't like to do it in front of people. But yes, okay? I love tarantella. Now, can you just…just get back to stupid chemical equations!" Why was he being so open with Antonio? Damn this crush. Damn it. What was he going to _do? _Antonio still had feelings for Roderich, right? And even if he was moving on, wasn't it a bit…well, _selfish_…to want to date him right after a bad breakup?

Wait, Lovino was getting ahead of himself.

Why on _earth _would Antonio want to go out with him in the first place? Irritable, crabby, rude, talent-less Lovino?

"Lovi, I didn't mean to hurt you! You don't have to look so sad!" Antonio said, turning off the music on his phone. "Hey," he put a hand on his shoulder, "Lovi? Look, forget the tarantella thing. I have a question about this equation. Will you help me out?"

Lovino blinked, pulling his emotions under control. Dammit, he was always so quick to cry. Why would Antonio, adorable, lovable Antonio, ever want to go out with him? Lifting his head, he reached a hand out for the notebook. "The tenth one?" he asked, noticing scribbles and cancellations on the paper. "Okay, here's what you do…"

* * *

Matthew's heart sank when Ivan walked into class, sporting a limp. He would wince occasionally, his hand flying to his chest—his rib cage. Nobody would notice, though. Nobody noticed how much he suffered.

The Canadian, despite his exhaustion and general disinterest in the world around him, lifted his head slightly and smiled at his friend. Ivan returned it, though it was obviously forced. A pounding began in Matthew's temples. He couldn't deal with this. This drama. He was getting sick of it.

As they day progressed, Matthew felt worse and worse. He would slink through the corridors. He tried to hang out with Gilbert, but there was so much obvious tension between them—_why? Things had been going pretty well, lately!_—that it only depressed him further. By the time he was halfway through the day, Matthew wanted to curl up on the floor and weep.

There was an awful buzzing in his ears. He hated people. Everyone. Why couldn't they just shut up and go away? Why did he come to school? Fucking Alfred. Fucking school. Fucking Ivan. Fucking Gilbert. Fucking drama.

His hands curled, his fists like rocks. He was shaking with rage as he stormed to the empty bathroom, locking him inside a cubicle. Matthew just sat on the floor, reveling in his privacy. The Canadian buried his head in his knees, trying to cry. No tears came.

But then, there was the sound of the bathroom door opening, and two sets of heavy footsteps entered. He recognised those voices. His heart sank some more. The sound of running water: the faucets had been opened. A thick French accent. A thicker German one.

"Really, Gilbert, you've been rather moody today."

"I didn't sleep well."

"Why?"

A pause. A deliberative pause.

"Nightmares, Francis. Just…Ivan and stuff. Nightmares. Shit, man. I was terrified. And what scares me more is that Matthew and Ivan…why is that damned Russian taking my Birdie away?"

"You should have more faith in Mathieu."

"I trust him. I know he'd never do to me what Roderich did to Toni. But shit, Francis, I don't understand! Birdie _knows _the trauma I went through because of that damned Commie. And he doesn't care?"

The running water had stopped. The slight rustle of tissue paper.

"…It's been years since Ivan bullied anybody, Gil. Maybe he _has _changed?"

"That is not the fucking point. The point is, Matthew doesn't care about what I'm going through." A pause. "And…honestly, at this rate…at this rate, I don't know how long we're going to survive."

Footsteps storming out of the toilets. Everything was quiet again.

Matthew was shaking so much that he could barely even stand. But he pushed himself upright, unlocked the cubicle door, and staggered to the mirror. He was clammy. His eyes were wide. His skin had blanched. Matthew felt like throwing up.

He splashed some water on his face.

Then, he made a decision.

* * *

Ivan was sitting under a tree in the school gardens during lunch. He was alone. There were students littered all about, but they avoided him. All of them. All except Matthew.

The Canadian walked up. There was a firm sway to his steps. His head was bowed. His hands were balled. Ivan smiled when he saw his friend, and waved towards him. The blonde didn't wave back. On his face, there was a grim frown. No, not a frown. Just a tensed, miserable expression.

"Matvey? Are you alright?" Ivan asked as he came within earshot.

Matthew swallowed. "We can't be friends anymore." His voice was steadier than he'd expected it to be. He hadn't rehearsed what he was going to say, but he knew what he wanted to communicate. The Canadian was done. He couldn't balance this. It was hurting everybody. _  
_

Ivan looked blank for a moment, and then his face crumbled. He looked like his whole universe had collapsed, and his purple eyes actually filled with tears. "What?"

"I'm sorry. I can't do this. I just can't."

"Matthew." Ivan stood. His voice was desperate, pleading. "Matthew, _no. _What will I do without you? I won't survive. I don't have anybody. Please, please don't do this to me. I need you." His voice broke. Tears streamed freely now. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I won't talk about myself anymore. I won't bother you, and I won't interfere with you and Gilbert. I never wanted to do that, anyway. Please. Don't leave me alone. I'm _begging _you."

The Canadian felt something inside him crumble and die. His heart was twisting, tearing itself into pieces and fluttering to the ground. Like ashes. He hated himself. He hated what he was doing to Ivan. He hated what he was doing to Gilbert. Matthew _deserved _to feel this way. Matthew was a failure. A good-for-nothing failure.

"I'm sorry," he managed to choke out. "Please don't talk to me again." He was trembling once more as he turned to walk away, fully aware that he'd just abandoned a suicidal friend.

* * *

"Arfred." Kiku set his lunchbox down on the table. Arthur was sitting next to him, oddly quiet. He seemed to be shooting glances at Francis Bonnefoy, all the way across the room, who, in turn, seemed to be shooting glances at him. There seemed to be an awkward, steely air about the whole thing. Kiku didn't want to get into it. He had other things on his mind.

"Hey! There ya are!" the American greeted. "I was wondering where you'd vanished off to!" He took a huge bite of his burger.

"Arrfred, is Matthew feering sick?"

Slowly, the American put the burger down. A sudden seriousness had entered his eyes. "Why would you say that?" Even Arthur glanced up at Alfred's tone of voice.

"He just reft the schoor premises, rooking rike death." Kiku paused, watching the American stiffen. "I thought you knew."

"No, no I did not know. Thank you for telling me." And then, the American did something remarkable. He pushed away his tray of food. "Excuse me." And he stood, walked across the cafeteria, and slammed his fists on the Bad Touch Trio's table.

"Beilschmidt, you tell me what the fuck you did to Matthew."

The albino looked genuinely confused. "What are you on about, Jones?"

"My brother. He's been acting weird since he got back from his date with _you._" Alfred spat out the last word like an insult. "And I know he was on the phone with you for ages last evening, so what the fuck did you say to him? Did you break up with him or something? Did you hurt him?"

"Alfred," Francis began, "Calm down." He set his fork on the tray. "You're making an unnecessary scene."

"Yeah," Antonio said, narrowing his eyes. "You can't just barge up here and accuse our friend."

"Wait, hold on." Gilbert stood, frowning. He looked honestly perplexed. "_He _left _me _alone after our date. I was all set on dropping him back, but he refused. He said he wanted to walk back on his own. I thought it was odd as well. And I really don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Jones. I wasn't on the phone with him yesterday. He's been really weird all day, though."

Alfred seemed to take this in. He blinked. Then, he glared at Gilbert. Wrenching his head away from the albino, his eyes went to Kiku. Then back to Gilbert. "I have to go." The American went back to his table, snatched his bag, and marched out of the cafeteria.

* * *

_If I die young, bury me in satin…_

The lyrics of the song wafted through the house, making Alfred's blood run cold. He'd always hated that song. He'd hated all the songs Matthew used to listen to. His therapist had made him delete all his depressing songs, precisely because they would make him feel worse. He'd clearly kept a few, though.

_Lay me down on a bed of roses…_

"Mattie?" Alfred was terrified. The house was deadly empty, except for that song. His younger brother's schoolbag lay in a heap on the floor. It had been tossed there carelessly. Alfred had an image of Matthew running home, throwing his bag against the wall and storming up to his room.

That is where Alfred checked first. His room was empty. The music, however, was coming from inside the bathroom down the hallway.

_Sink me in a river at dawn…_

"Matthew? Matthew, please respond. You're freaking me out." This had never happened before. Alfred had no idea how to deal with it. That song…what if—no. Matthew wouldn't do something stupid like that. Depressed or not. That was just—

Fuck.

"MATTHEW, I SWEAR TO GOD, OPEN THE FUCKING BATHROOM DOOR!"

It was _locked. _Alfred was this close to having a full-fledged panic attack.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Matthew, open the door. Shit, don't scare me. Mattie?" Alfred began repeatedly punching it, kicking it. "This isn't funny anymore. Matthew, oh god, please, please be okay, please! Open the door!" His hysteria was drowning out the rest of the lyrics of the depressing song.

Alfred was done with patience. With an almighty shout, he kicked the door. It gave an awful _boom _as it exploded out of the latch, flew open and hit the wall behind it with the force enough to crack the tiles.

And Matthew was on the floor. In only a pair of boxer shorts and an old shirt. Blood seeped from a wound in his thigh. He was pale, crying softly, his eyes blank. He looked almost catatonic. Beside him, music blared from his phone. His fingers were bleeding too. He'd somehow broken a safety razor to get at the blade.

"Fuck," Alfred whispered.

Matthew didn't look up.

But the blade held delicately in his bleeding fingers went down on the skin of his thigh. It cut through. The movement was so gentle, so practiced, that it would have almost looked tranquil if it hadn't been the _exact _opposite. Down his legs and arms, Alfred noticed scars. Old self-inflicted scars. From when they'd been sixteen.

This was a situation Alfred had been in before. He'd been on the verge of panic only a few moments ago, but that was because of the song. He'd have expected to find Matthew hanging by a rope from the ceiling. (The very image made him want to throw up.)

Now, Alfred acted with an immense calmness.

He walked over to his brother, picked up the phone, and switched off the song. There. That was better. Matthew dug the blade into his skin again. If he'd registered Alfred's presence, he hadn't reacted to it.

"Mattie," Alfred said, reaching out for his brother's hand. "Mattie, give that to me, please."

Matthew did not struggle as the American slid the blade out of his grasp. The Canadian's hand only fell to the floor, limp. Then, his voice soft, he said, "The irony."

"Irony?" Alfred's heart was beating out of his rib cage, but if Matthew was actually trying to make conversation, this was a good thing. He had to keep his brother talking. He never took his eyes off the Canadian as he reached for the medicine cabinet under the basin, looking for a first-aid box.

"Before we went to Hawaii, remember? Mom had taken us to the mall to buy stuff. We were bored. You spotted a friend…Arthur, I think? And went over to him. I was standing in the store, all alone. And then I saw Ivan. He had a black eye, a limp, and was looking for medical supplies. I saw the marks on his wrist. Like a knife had tried to slice the vein. And I knew. I knew he was like me. Depressed, I mean. So I befriended him, because Ivan had no friends."

"Oh," Alfred said. He'd been dabbing cotton with antiseptic, but paused in his work to look at his brother. "He's…"

"Suicidal, yes." Matthew now looked at Alfred. "His father hits him, his mother is dead. His younger sister, Natalya, she's schizophrenic. His older sister is really poor, and depends on Ivan for money. And on top of that, everyone at school hates him. He used to bully people so he could feel even the slightest sense of _power. _No, not power. _Control. _Because, Al, we need to feel like we're in control of our lives. But then it dawned on him that by hurting other people, he was doing exactly what his father was doing to him. So he stopped." Matthew blinked. It was very, very slow. A sleepy, almost drugged blink.

He continued to talk.

"I wanted to help him. Because I was over my depression. I was happy. And I knew what depression felt like. But it didn't work, did it? I could provide only friendship, support. But…it doesn't help me, Al. Listening to these awful things. Ivan just needs someone to talk to. But when I listen to him, I just get even more depressed. That's the irony. It was alright at first. But this whole conflict with him and Gilbert…and yesterday, Ivan told me about how his father…how he…" and Matthew broke off and let out a sob.

"Okay, okay, you don't have to tell me," Alfred said quickly, pulling Matthew into a desperate hug. Like if he let go, his younger brother would just fade away. Matthew was about the same size as Alfred, but in times like these, he just felt so small in the American's arms.

"How his father raped his sister…and how Ivan had to fight for Natalya…and…I can't…I can't _deal _with it, Alfred!" his voice was getting higher and panicky. Matthew started to hyperventilate.

"Shit, Mattie, calm down. Shush, calm down." Alfred pressed his brother's head into his shoulder. Matthew's terrified gasps jerked against Alfred's body. The wetness against Alfred's shirt was proof that his brother was sobbing into him.

It took a while for Matthew to calm down. He seemed dizzy, unfocused, and pressed his head against the bathroom wall. Alfred continued dabbing his brother's wounds. Some of them were pretty deep. Blood still oozed out of one of them. Alfred really, really, really hoped Matthew hadn't gone and sliced an artery or something.

"I told Ivan I can't be his friend anymore. Selfish, right? But it's cruel. It's cruel to Gilbert, it's cruel to me. But what I did to Ivan today…I'm the cruelest of all. I'm a murderer. He's probably taking a dose of sleeping pills right now."

"Why didn't you just _tell _Gilbert all this?" Alfred muttered, pressing a ball of cotton into Matthew's wounds. The younger brother didn't react to the pain.

"I couldn't. Ivan made me swear I wouldn't tell anyone. _Especially _Gilbert. Because of their former…issues."

That wound on his calf kept bleeding.

Alfred sighed, sitting back. He was surrounded by bloodied cotton balls. "Okay, look," he said, his voice holding no room for argument. "I'm calling mom, and then I'm taking you to a hospital. I think you might need to get stitched up. In the meantime, I'll make sure Ivan's fine."

Matthew didn't protest. He seemed too tired. All he did was lean forward into his brother's shoulder once again. Alfred ran a hand through Matthew's hair. "Don't worry, Mattie. The hero will take care of everything. I promise."

* * *

_Hours Later_

* * *

"_Gilbert."_

"Wow, no 'Beilschmidt' now?"

"_Shut the fuck up and listen. I need your help. This is serious. And you're going to help me because the love of your life is in a total mess."_

Gilbert's heart almost stopped at the sentence. Pressing the phone closer to his ear, he almost shouted, "Is Matthew okay?"

"_Mom and I just got him home from the hospital. He's resting. He was cutting himself. He cut too deep and nicked an artery. Or a vein. I don't know."_

"WHAT?"

"_Listen to me. Matthew will be fine. He's asleep now, and I'm keeping an eye on him at the moment. I need you and your buddies to do something for me. It's urgent. It's about Ivan. I should have made this phone call much earlier, but I was too worried about my brother to even think straight."_

"What did that Commie bastard do now?" Gilbert growled. From the other end of the line, Alfred let out a short, dark laugh.

"_We're going to talk about Ivan's family life for a bit. And then you're going to go check on him."_

* * *

Antonio was _not _nervous. No, he wasn't. (He kept tapping his foot and wringing his hands together because he was feeling empowered. Not nervous.) From behind the door, the Spaniard could hear sweet piano music. He'd always loved this particular piece, though he had no idea what it was called or who'd composed it. But Roderich had always been able to play it flawlessly, and the tune had really struck a chord with Antonio. (Roderich had smiled about it, saying he had good taste.)

The Spaniard was pleased that he could actually think about these happy memories without wanting to break something or cry. He was getting _over _it! At one point, he thought he was going to die of loneliness and hurt, but he was actually feeling happier and happier these days!

He waited an extra two minutes at the door, waiting for the piece to end. He didn't want to disturb Roderich. It would be rude. And he didn't care about this because of any remaining emotion he may have felt for the Austrian, but out of common human decency. And the fact that he could feel something like that was further proof that he was getting over the disastrous relationship.

Only when the piano music stopped did Antonio ring the doorbell. His stomach flipped uncomfortably. Okay, so maybe he was a little nervous…

The door flew open almost instantly. Antonio's eyes widened. Roderich was there, dressed as impeccably as ever. His lips curled upwards into one of his characteristic shy smiles.

"Antonio."

"Hi."

"You need your things, correct?"

"Yes."

Antonio felt like his head was going to explode. Roderich stepped aside, allowing Antonio to enter the house. It left a painful sting, the familiarity of the place. His parents were clearly not at home, because there was no sound of cooking coming from the kitchen, and his father's Mozart wasn't playing on the stereo system.

The house was neat, prim, and adorned with expensive furniture. The walls were white, and the whole place had a very modern feel to it. Roderich motioned for Antonio to follow him up to his room.

Roderich's room was not very large, but it had a comfortable bed, a well-stocked CD collection, a computer, and the walls and shelves were decorated with various awards and certificates. Antonio's stomach flipped once more. On the foot of the bed was a large box. Roderich pointed at it. "Your things. Your jeans, a guitar peg, some CDs, and a pen."

The Spaniard swallowed and nodded, walking up to it and picking it up. With his back still turned to his ex-boyfriend, he said, "Thank you. You're as organised as ever, I see."

"Actually, I kept it for sentiment's sake."

Antonio actually stiffened. Then, he turned. "Sentiment?"

Roderich's face fell a little. "I heard you playing your guitar in music class that day. And…well, I just…" he sighed, and collected himself. "You've always liked that kind of Latin music."

"…Yes." Antonio was genuinely worried about this conversation. It was going to uncomfortable places.

Roderich came up to him. At one point, Antonio would have pulled him close. He would have held on to him, promising eternities and endless joys. Now, the Spaniard just went on his guard. Roderich was too close. He was invading Antonio's personal space.

"Ro—"

Without warning, without invitation, and without a single flicker of consideration to Antonio's feelings, Roderich leaned forward and kissed him.

* * *

**A/N: Draaaamaaaaaaa! Man, do I love this genre, or what!? :D Seriously, I wrote this whole 5000+ word chapter in ONE sitting. I've been creating this chapter in my head for AGES now. It was the most emotionally involved chapter for me, too, which is what made it such an interesting writing exercise. **

**I know that some of the themes are sort of uncomfortable. Mentions of rape, self-harm, stuff like that. But I'd always planned it this way. And now you know the story behind the PruCan arc. Woot, woot! Also, yes, I wrote Roderich as a complete asshole. It was totally worth it. **

**And hey, this is probably the first cliffhanger ending this fic has had! *Dances around in happiness* Cliffhangers are difficult for me, for some reason. I get really happy when I write a good one. **

**Anywaaaay. Thanks for reading. Please review :D **

**Also, I was wondering if you guys could help me out. I've heard of this Hetalia strip where Romano is reading about how Spain would spend a lot of money (money he didn't have) on him as a child, and goes to thank Spain, but Spain misunderstands (as usual), and pisses Romano off. I can't for the LIFE of me find it. Anyone know what it's called, or where I can read it? Thanks! :)**


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: You guuuuuys! :D Thank you SOOOO much for your awesome reviews to the last chapter. Some of them made me laugh! Especially all of those negative reactions to Roddy! *Still laughing as she types***

**Okay, so, a little disclaimer. I don't actually hate Roderich. I quite like him. In my Historical!Hetalia SpAus one-shot, The House of Habsburg, I've actually narrated and described the (disastrous) Habsburg marriage between Spain and Austria through Roddy's POV, so he gets humanized. And I've read some utterly beautiful SpAus fics (my favourite happens to be Sometimes it Hurts Instead, by ChocolateTurnip. It's a Human!AU incomplete multi-chapter about how Toni and Roddy's relationship collapses.) Anyway, so, yeah, I don't hate Roderich. But I needed a bad guy for my story, and he fit the bill. Like I said in chapter one, Roddy's canon relationship with Spain was an excellent excuse to cast him as the cheating ex-boyfriend in this fic. I still think he's adorable.**

**Having said that, Roderich Edelstein is going to be portrayed as even **_**more **_**of an asshole by the time this fic is complete. Sorry, Roddy fans! Here's a cookie, and an apology hug :3 **

**Also, *gives another cookie to TheAwesomeMe128*. They helped me in finding that Hetalia strip I'd mentioned in the previous chapter. To all those interested, the strip is part of 'Romano's Diary' in volume 4. **

**By the way, sorry for the late update! This chapter was really hard to write. **

* * *

Antonio did not think. He reacted. He reacted on practiced instinct. His lips moved on their on accord as the logical part of his brain got completely overridden by the situation. Roderich was just how he'd remembered. His velvety lips, supple but secretly playful. The niches and curves of his mouth—all those places that Antonio knew so well—a tongue that tasted of pastries.

Austrian hands pulled Antonio closer. The kiss deepened. Their eyes were closed. It was, without a doubt, the most passionate kiss they'd ever had. It was desperate, lonely, starving for more. Antonio had wanted this. Craved for it. Wept for it. He needed this. He needed Roderich.

And then, somehow, from somewhere deep in the crevices of his mind, a rough, Italian voice seemed to yell at him. Ah. That must have been the logical part of Antonio's brain, finally jerking itself out of the shock of being kissed by Roderich. Funny. It sounded strangely like Lovino Vargas.

_YOU FUCKING TOMATO BASTARD, HE TWO-TIMED WITH ELIZABETA! WHAT THE EFFIN HELL ARE YOU DOING?_

Lovino's face flooded up to the surface of Antonio's consciousness. Lovino's adorable, pouting face.

And Antonio's eyes snapped open. In a jolt of horror, he pushed Roderich away, gasping for air. Roderich looked startled. A trance had been broken. Memories of their relationship came rising up and crashing down, lying on the floor like shards of glass. A musical note, the sound of laughter, a stolen kiss, nights spent together. The Spaniard blinked, shaking himself out of the spell.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Antonio shouted. He was angry. Angrier than he'd ever thought he'd be.

"I—I don't know," Roderich admitted, lowering his eyes. "I…I just…The guitar music that day—and—well—" it was so uncommon for the Austrian to splutter like this. "I miss you," he finally managed to say.

Antonio felt an almost physical tug in his heart. Roderich, with his head bowed, with his fists balled, his shoulders shaking. The tone of his voice. And those words. The words Antonio had been aching to hear for so long.

He would have believed him, too.

The Spaniard closed his eyes for a moment. He absolutely had to bring his rising temper under control. He'd never felt this furious with Roderich before, not even when he found out about the cheating. _That manipulating scumbag. _

"You're lying," Antonio said. His eyes were deadpan.

Roderich glanced up, his eyes widening in alarm. "No—"

"And even if you aren't," the Spaniard found himself struggling to say the next few words, "I don't want you back. Miss me? Good for you. I have to go." Picking up his box of things, he walked past Roderich. The Austrian didn't resist. He didn't say a word.

Only when Antonio shut the house door behind him did he give into his rage. He didn't even know what he was _doing _anymore. He was just blindly angry. He kicked a potted plant. Kicked the footpath. Cussed.

And then he ran. He ran because he had to get away from that blasted house, away from everything it meant to him.

* * *

Arthur stared at the screen of his laptop. Damn it all, he couldn't concentrate! He'd decided to work on rewriting _The Comedy of Errors_, but that just made him think of Francis, their childhood, that kiss, and then, today. Dear god, it was horrible. They shared too many classes, and the Englishman had spent all his time trying to go unnoticed.

He brought his focus back onto the screen, trying to drown out the noise from his house. The Kirkland home was _never _silent. His mother and older sister were having some kind of row in the kitchen, his father was laughing loudly with someone on the phone, Allistor was locked in his room, playing some godawful metal music on full volume, and Dylan, at the opposite end of the hallway, was watching FIFA reruns on his laptop—without earphones. Arthur groaned, resisting the urge to bang his head on the table.

Sitting in his own room (which he had to share with that annoying brat, Peter), he flipped through his copy of Shakespeare plays, reading over a dialogue in _The Comedy of Errors, _and trying to rework it to something that would appeal to an audience of bored teenage arseholes.

Peter laughed loudly. He was watching Pokemon, and it was giving Arthur a headache. Why did his parents ever think that having a TV in their bedroom was a good idea?

Arthur whipped around suddenly, his green eyes sparking. "WILL YOU TURN OFF THAT BLASTED TELLY? I'M TRYING TO WORK!"

Peter rolled his eyes. "It's almost on mute, Arthur!"

"Turn. It. Off."

"No!"

For a moment, Arthur was torn between switching the telly off himself (read: ripping the wires from the socket and then repeatedly kicking the damn thing until it broke), hitting his brother with a shoe, or bursting into tears of frustration. In the end, he picked none of those options.

Instead, Arthur just swore the worst words he knew, slammed his laptop shut with more force than necessary, and locked himself in the bathroom. There. Nobody would bother him now. Ah, his head hurt! From outside, he could still hear Gráinne and his mother having their weekly screaming match, the metal music, the FIFA reruns, the Pokemon, his father's laughter, all of that moulding into one disgusting mush.

Arthur sometimes envied Francis's large, quiet home.

(He didn't envy the Frenchman's circumstances, though.)

That damn Frog. Today had been utterly horrid! Arthur had tried his best to avoid Francis, but eventually, the Frenchman had accosted him outside the lavatories. The memory made Arthur cringe.

Francis had said, "_Mon ami, _I was so worried about you yesterday! Listen, about that kiss—"

"I was _drunk_. So, don't concern yourself with it! I wasn't thinking. I'd never do something like that to you if I were sober." Arthur's tone had been dark and poisonous. He still couldn't understand that. What he'd actually wanted to do was pull Francis close and kiss him _again._ But every word he'd said to the Frenchman was the exact opposite of what he'd meant.

Francis had seemed mildly surprised, but he wasn't the sort to be phased by this kind of thing. He'd simply said, "Arthur, I want to do this properly. Would you like to go out with me sometime?" His eyes held no traces of humour. In fact, they'd been oddly sincere. The smouldering look was back, and Arthur almost died right there.

"First of all," Arthur spat, "I would never date you. Secondly—and I reiterate—I was _drunk. _Maybe you spiked that wine with something! Some kind of drug! Who knows what you'd do to get into someone's pants."

It was the wrong thing to say. Francis would do all sorts of things to get laid, but he would never, ever spike a drink. Arthur knew this. Sure, Francis was an arse, but even he wasn't that much of a sicko.

All the Frenchman did was narrow his eyes.

And then, Arthur sealed his coffin. "I don't want you. I've never wanted you. All you've ever been is one gigantic nuisance." _What am I SAYING? _"Honestly, Francis, you need to stop being such a conceited man-slut before you get some sort of sexually transmitted disease." And then, Arthur abruptly stopped talking, because Francis had a cold, detached air about him. The Frenchman would never show anger by screaming. That was beneath him.

Francis spoke quietly, his voice level. "Ah, _mon ami, __je suis désolé_." He paused, and then said, "When should I expect the script of our play? Soon, I hope?"

Arthur had gaped at him. "W-what?"

"Don't take too long with it. The sooner we get the script, the sooner we can get started with the preparations."

And with that, he'd turned on his heels and marched off. Somehow, Arthur got the feeling that Francis was a little more than just furious with the whole thing.

"You're an idiot," Alfred had laughed when Arthur had told him about it during lunch. This was, of course, before Alfred had run home to his brother.

"I'm an absolute nutter," Arthur had agreed, hanging his head in shame.

Now, there was the sound of a heavy fist pounding against the bathroom door. "Oi! Whoever's in there, get the fuck out. I need to take a piss."

Dylan.

Arthur suppressed a groan, getting to his feet. (When had he decided to sit on the floor? That wasn't even hygienic.) When he unlocked the door, his older brother blinked at him. "You being sick in there, mate?"

"What?"

"You look like shit."

"Cheers," Arthur muttered, walking past him and back into his room.

* * *

Three times. He'd called Francis three times. The idiot didn't pick up his phone. What time was it? Huh, barely seven in the evening! Too early for Francis to go out and find himself someone to sleep with. Gilbert glared at his phone in despair before trying Antonio once more. The Spaniard's phone was just flat-out switched off.

Great.

With a stressed sigh, Gilbert marched down the stairs. It was oddly silent today. Only Ludwig was sitting at the table, reading.

"Where are mom and dad?" Gilbert asked, speaking in German.

His younger brother glanced up from his book, confused. "Out. For dinner? We were supposed to get takeout. I was just going to ask you if you had any preferences."

"Ludwig," Gilbert said, his voice heavy. The younger Beilschmidt picked up on his instantly, raising an eyebrow in surprise. "I was just on the phone with Alfred Jones. Matthew's brother?" At the name of his boyfriend, Gilbert's face twisted in worry. It was such a fleeting expression that Ludwig almost missed it. The albino continued, "I…look, I need your help. Grab your coat, let's go."

"Where are we going?"

"To Ivan Braginski's house. Alfred texted me his address and number from Matthew's phone. I'll tell you what's happening on the way."

* * *

Gilbert recognised the name of the street. It was on the poorer parts of town. They took a train, and Gilbert quietly began to explain the situation of the previous weeks to his younger brother. It was such a relief that Ludwig was a good listener. He never interrupted, and always reacted with a nod of his head or a softly voiced question. It helped calm Gilbert's nerves.

"So that's why you went to play hockey," Ludwig commented. "And that's why you've been looking so upset lately."

"_Ja._" It didn't feel real, somehow. Ivan, suicidal? But then…in an odd, scary kind of way, it made sense. Well, no, that wasn't the right way to put it. It didn't make _sense, _exactly. It, um…well, it _wasn't surprising_. And trust Matthew to try and solve Ivan's problems like that.

Matthew.

His name made Gilbert's stomach twist uncomfortably. Why did he cut? Why did he start doing that again? _Gott_, hopefully this was just a one-time thing. If Matthew slipped back into his old depression again, it was going to be bad. The very idea of Matthew doing something so horrible to himself was just—

Ludwig's hand rested lightly on Gilbert's shoulder. "_Bruder, _it'll be fine. Look, try calling Ivan?"

"Yeah. Good idea." Gilbert had been trying to call Ivan's number for ages now, but the Russian simply wasn't answering. Honestly, it was starting to worry him. What was Gilbert supposed to do? Maybe call the police? Ugh, this situation was too serious for them to handle!

As expected, nobody answered on Ivan's end. Gilbert tried two more times. And then, remarkably, success.

"_Hello? Who is this? I have been getting many calls from this number."_

It was scary. Ivan's voice sounded weak. Tired. Wet. Like he'd been crying.

"Um…hi. This is Gilbert." The Prussian could feel his heart hammer inside his chest. Ludwig, too, tensed slightly.

"…_Hello, Gilbert." _The uncertainty in his voice was shocking. There was a long pause, in which neither party dared to speak. What exactly was Gilbert supposed to say, anyway? He tried to picture it. 'Hi, please don't kill yourself.' Well, that sounded stupid.

"Ivan, uh…" Gilbert coughed, uncomfortable.

"_Why must it be you?" _the Russian sounded rather thoughtful under his pain in his voice. _"Matthew tell you about me, I suppose?"_

"…Sort of. And what do you mean 'why must it be you'?"

"_I wonder what exactly he told you. Did he tell you how many times I've tried to kill myself? Four times. Matthew believes it's five—but that last time, I wasn't trying to do it, I just cut too deep. And I was wondering…I was wondering why, out of all the people to call me now, it had to be you. You hate me. And yet, you may have well just saved my life. For now, anyway. I was in the middle of something, and your phone calls were interrupting me."_

Gilbert wrenched the phone from his ear. His skin was cold, goose bumps ran down his arms. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Covering the phone with his hand, he whispered, "Luddy, _mein Gott, _I can't do this." He thrust the thing into his brother's hands. "You talk."

Ludwig blinked at Gilbert, and then at the phone. "No. You have to do this. If he knows I know, it'll just make it worse."

Gilbert groaned, before putting the phone back to his ear. "Ivan? I'm in your neighbourhood. We need to talk."

"_Da. I can see you from where I'm standing. It took me a few minutes to spot you, but I can see you now." _

Once more, Gilbert tore the phone away and covered it with his palm. "Fuck. Ludwig…Ludwig, check the rooftops." And both brothers scanned their eyes upwards. But it was impossible to make out anything in the dark, even with the lamplights.

"Don't do anything stupid, okay?" Gilbert told Ivan, trying to keep his voice from cracking under the pressure.

"…_I'm really sorry, Gilbert. I'm sorry for all the horrible things I did to you." _That sounded like the beginnings to a final goodbye. _"I just wanted to feel…feel," _he finished. _"I wanted to feel. And hurting my classmates made me feel so strong. But I'm not strong. I never was. I'm weak. And I'm evil. I deserve to die." _

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

"No! Look, we were both brats back then. Forget the past. Let's both forget it." Gilbert was walking down the street. What had Alfred's text said? The Braginkski house was…number ten. Ten, ten…where was it? There was number two, four, six...eight, over there…ten! Gilbert looked up. It was difficult to tell in the light, but…was that a figure on the roof? "_Mein Gott. _Ivan, don't do it. Please!"

"_Oh, look! I can see you now. You're right outside my house." _

From the corner of his eyes, Gilbert saw Ludwig whip out his iPhone and punch in a number. The emergency helpline number.

"Ivan! Just back away! Look, everything is going to be fine! I promise! Matthew isn't mad at you! It's all my fault, okay? I'm an asshole, I'm a touchy, possessive asshole. Mattie's your friend, are you really going to make him live with the guilt of this?"

The Russian sounded too calm as he spoke. In the movies, they always had this air of desperation, didn't they? But now…no, he just sounded…prepared.

"_I made Matvey sad. Didn't I, Gilbert? That's why you're even here. Because if Matvey were not sad, he would have come here himself." _

"He—"

"_I knew that look on his face when he told me we couldn't be friends. I KNOW that look. I understand it perfectly. The fear. The pain. The depression." _The silhouette on the rooftop took a step closer towards the edge. _"I can't deal with it anymore. Papa is out now, drinking. Natalya is asleep. Yekaterina lives alone, on the other side of the city. She managed to get out, even though she relies on me for money, most of the time. Anyway, I am alone. I can do this now. So please, don't interfere."_

Gilbert watched in sinking horror as Ivan took another step towards the edge. And he dropped the phone. He ignored how it clattered to the sidewalk. He ignored the possible damage it might have. The albino just stared at the sight. Ludwig cussed.

"IVAN, DON'T YOU DARE!" Gilbert found himself screaming, just as the Russian's body went flying from the rooftop.

* * *

Wait, what—

Lovino knew they were having a slow night at the restaurant. The Vargas family and other assorted employees were actually getting a bit bored, since the only customer that evening had been an old guy who came and asked for a sparkling water with some ravioli. It had been a blessing when the telephone rang, and someone ordered three large pizzas.

As always, Lovino was in charge of delivering them. Feli was a terrible driver (Lovino wasn't much better, but at least he hadn't been arrested yet!) It was when he gave the pizzas away, returned to the restaurant and parked the motorbike outside, did he notice Antonio through the large windows.

Antonio, with his head on Feliciano's shoulder.

The sight made Lovino's fists curl in jealousy.

* * *

Feliciano had been aimlessly polishing tables when Antonio walked in. He had a box in his hands, and he looked extremely restless. His green eyes were flooded with…panic? And even when he slid into a booth, he kept flinching and drumming his fingers against the table. He looked genuinely nervous.

"Ve…Toni?" Feliciano walked up to him, the obligatory menu card in hand. He could tell, however, the Antonio wasn't going to eat right now. Grandpa Romulus was in the kitchen, speaking to one of the chefs, and the dining room was eerily empty, save for only himself and Antonio. The Spaniard glanced up as the Italian approached.

"Oh…" Antonio began, and an artificial smile slipped on his face. "H-Hola, Feli…"

"Toni, are you alright?" Feliciano slid next to him on the booth. He dropped the menu on the table, but Antonio didn't notice it.

"I…um…" he looked around, still high-strung and nervous. "Ah…ahah…is Lovi...um…ahaha…"

"Lovi's delivering pizza. He should be back soon." Feliciano's face fell when Antonio seemed to turn a little pale. "Ve, what's wrong?"

"I'm such an idiot," Antonio groaned. And then he let out a dry, choked sob. Feliciano acted instinctively, and pulled his head on his shoulder. Antonio was not _crying, _per se, but he seemed to crave the physical contact. The Italian began to hum to himself as he ran his hands through Antonio's hair.

He didn't know how many minutes passed like this, but Lovino marched into the restaurant, his expression dark. "Tomato Bastard," he snapped, his tone clipped and irritated, "What the fuck happened?"

Antonio's head shot up, almost hitting Feliciano in the nose as it went. "Lovi!" The Spaniard's expression actually brightened. "Lovi…" and then he spoke very, very, very quickly. "Idon'tknowwhyIcamehereIshouldn'tbebotheringyouyoumustbebusyI'msorryIjusthadabadevening!"

"What?" Lovino blinked, as Feliciano slid off the booth to make room for his brother instead. The elder Vargas sat next to Antonio, and muttered, "Can you speak _clearly, _please?"

At which point, Antonio let out another dry sob and fell into Lovino's shoulder. Feliciano watched in absolute fascination as his _fratello's _face turned beetroot. What was more, Lovi wrapped his arms around Toni and seemed to pull him even _closer. _

"What's wrong, stupid?" Lovino's voice was gentle. Gentle!

Antonio didn't respond, but Lovino still held on to him.

Feliciano smirked, before quietly backing away and retreating to the kitchen.

* * *

Matthew felt sick. No, not horrendously nauseated, just slightly queasy. Not to mention groggy. He was so exhausted he couldn't even open his eyes. Once again, his whole body felt heavy. Memories began to return to him. Ivan. The blade. Alfred. Mom. The hospital.

Oh, holy crap. Things were bad, weren't they?

(Matthew was too tired to care.)

His mother had met them at the emergency room, looking harried and scared. Matthew, meanwhile, had been feeling downright lightheaded. Alfred had pressed a napkin to his wounds, but the damn cloth was becoming so soaked with blood that it looked like the evidence to a murder. After hugging him, his mother had proceeded to yell at him. Well, whisper-yell at him. _Matthew, we've been over this! You can't do this to yourself! Ever! It's stupid! It's dangerous! Jesus, has the doctor seen him, Alfred? Mattie, darling, you're looking awfully pale. _

The local anesthetic, combined with the blood loss, and Matthew had all but passed out in five minutes. He had no memory of going to his room, although he did vaguely remember Alfred half-pulling him into their mother's car. Alfred must have carried him up here…

Speaking of Alfred. Was that his voice Matthew could here?

"…But everything's under control now, right?"

"_Ja. _Luddy called the cops, man. An ambulance came, too. Luckily, Ivan only had a broken arm. I don't even know _how _he survived a fall like that, but…" That voice...

"It was because he fell straight into a bush." Wait, this was Ludwig Beilschmidt's voice, wasn't it? That would mean…was Gilbert here!?

Alfred said, "And then?"

"They took him to the hospital. He's still there. And his sister, Yakaterina or something, is handling things now. There's some talk that Ivan and Natalya will go live with her. Luddy and I had to give statements and everything. The coppers are still looking for the dad. Real piece of work, man."

"Jesus," Alfred muttered.

And now, their mother chipped in, "Alright, it's been an eventful night for everybody. It's really late. Your parents must be worried sick." She sounded absolutely exhausted. "Ludwig, Gilbert, how are you going to get home? Do you need me to drive you?"

They were _leaving? _No! Matthew felt a jolt of complete panic as his eyes snapped open. Using the last reserves of his strength, he'd pushed himself into a sitting position. His cuts hurt like crazy, and his mouth was dry. But he still cried out a very weak, "…Gil!" Damn. It was too soft.

From another room, he could still hear their voices.

"No, it's quite alright, Mrs. Jones," Ludwig was saying. "We'll take the train. Or we might even walk. Our home is not far from here. No need to trouble yourself."

"I don't know…it's really quite late," their mother said. "Half past midnight!"

"We'll be fine, Mrs. Jones," Gilbert said with an air of finality.

"Gil!" Matthew called again, his voice stronger. This time, the voices from the other room fell silent.

Until—

"Birdie!" and suddenly, a set of heavy footsteps had marched into Matthew's room. Gilbert looked exhausted, but he barged towards the Canadian and wrapped his arms around Matthew. His embrace made Matthew feel so safe…

"Gilbert, I—"

And then, the albino pulled away. His red eyes were full of pure fury. "Do you even KNOW how worried we were? Are you insane? I swear to _Gott, _if you ever pull another stunt like that, I—" and then he broke off, his face crumpling, before he suddenly pulled Matthew into one more hug. "_Gott, _Birdie…" he whispered into Matthew's hair.

"Sorry…"

"Yeah, you better be." This time, Alfred had spoken. Gilbert pulled away once again, and stepped back, so that the American could approach his brother. Ludwig, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen. He was probably too tactful (or too embarrassed) to get involved.

Matthew was surrounded by his mother, Alfred and Gilbert, all of them pulling him into hugs, only to draw back and give him a lecture. Gilbert and Alfred filled him in on the whole Ivan thing, and Matthew's eyes filled with tears. This made everyone panic, Gilbert especially. For their sakes, Matthew calmed down.

"So…Ivan's alright?" he asked, his voice small.

"_Ja. _Broken arm, concussion, but he'll be fine."

This time, it was Matthew who embraced Gilbert. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

And Gilbert just held him tighter.

* * *

_Some Time Later_

* * *

What in the world? Was that music? Coming from Lovi's room? _At quarter to one in the morning? _Feliciano, who'd been on his way to the toilet, stopped outside his brother's room and carefully opened the door. All the lights were on. Lovino was in an old t-shirt and a pair of track pants. From his phone his tarantella music played. Though the volume was soft, it was just loud enough for the whole room to be thick with the rhythm.

And Lovino was dancing.

"_Fratello__...__"_

Lovino, who'd been backing the door as he danced, abruptly stopped and whipped around. His golden eyes darkened. "Feli! What are you doing awake?"

"Going to pee," Feliciano mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "What's your excuse?"

The elder Vargas rolled his eyes and switched off the music. "Nothing."

"You usually only dance when you're stressed." Feliciano tilted his head to the side. What could Lovi be stressed about? Antonio, perhaps? Though, after some pizza and some Coke, the Spaniard had calmed down. He didn't tell either of them exactly what had happened, but still. Lovino's presence had helped, Feliciano was sure. Or could his brother be dancing out of happiness? Lovi did that, too, sometimes. His older brother got extreme joy from tarantella.

"Shut up." Lovino marched up to Feli, shoved him out of the room, and ordered, "Go on, then! Go pee."

"Are you going to keep dancing?" Feliciano questioned, but Lovino just scowled at him before shutting the door on his face. The younger brother smiled, and called out, "Ve, get some sleep! You'll be all cranky in the morning!"

"Who the fuck cares? I'm always cranky!" and with that, the tarantella music began to play again.

* * *

**A/N: Done. Phew. This chapter was so ridiculously difficult. And I'm convinced I've screwed up the Ivan and Gilbert scene. I was going to make the whole thing longer and more detailed, but I just **_**couldn't**_**. Everything I wrote looked like a soap opera. And let's face it, this fic is as close to a soap opera as a fanfiction can get! XD**

**The next update will take some time. I'm travelling on the 15****th****, and I won't be back until the 21****st****. If I do get the time to write a chapter before I go, I'll definitely do that. If not, expect the next update sometime after the 21****st****! **

**Also, in the meantime, **_**HELP ME WITH GERITA. **_**Seriously! This is NOT my pairing, and I have no idea what to do with it! Wait, no, that's not true. I know where it's supposed to **_**go, **_**but in the interim, I have no cute GerIta scenes (like that Spamano dyslexia scene that everyone loves). I don't want to give them a storyline as complicated as the other arcs, because I just CANNOT write that much for a pairing I don't enjoy completely. So, hey, if you have any ideas for short, cute GerIta scenes, let me know! I'll try to write some!**

**And now, I must bid you adieu! **

**Until the next update! :D **

**Thanks for reading. Please review! **


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: One last chapter before I travel! **

**My fic has started to sink into an ocean of angst. To save it from this fate, I will have to pull it out from the depths, before it drowns in its own tears. **

**Thus, this chapter. Almost all of it is pure crack. **

**By the way, I URGE you to listen to the song "Why Can't the English?" It's in the movie **_**My Fair Lady, **_**but you can find the song on Youtube. Seriously, you will enjoy this chapter a whole lot more if you listen to that song first. **

**Haha, lots of time skips in this chapter xD A special thanks to Spinyfruit, for the opinions! It was really helpful. I would also like to thank Loveless043, for their help with the Spanish in some of the earlier chapters! :D**

**Okay, that's it for now. **

**Enjoy, **_**mes amis**_**!**

* * *

_Two Weeks Later_

* * *

Returning to school after such a long time was unnerving. One of Ivan's arms was in a cast and a sling, but apart from that, he looked more or less alright. Living with Yakaterina was a relief, although her apartment was cramped and there was mould on the walls. A distant aunt from Moscow had come forward to help them, and she was moving to the city in a few days. Natalya was coping with the change well. And their father was behind bars.

Ivan had spent a lot of time in the hospital, and the doctors had urged him to see a therapist. Matthew _and _Gilbert had come to visit him, and had even helped him move his things to Yakaterina's house.

He didn't quite know what to make of that.

At lunch, Ivan slunk to his usual table. It was really, really hard to cut anything with only one good hand, so he'd only taken a bowl of soup and a bun. Those things were easy to eat, though he was rather hungry, and wanted to take some more.

He spooned the soup idly, lost in some nightmarish memories. It felt so weird to try and fit into the normalness of schoo—

_Slam. _The sound of a heavily laden tray slapping against the tabletop. "For goodness sakes, Alfred, stop humming Nikki Minaj songs! I've got _Starships _playing in my head!" And Arthur and slid onto the bench, with Matthew's older brother sitting right beside him.

Alfred laughed at the Englishman, and then both of them turned to Ivan. "Hey, buddy!" Alfred chirped, "Mind if we sit here?"

"Uh…" the Russian managed. What the hell was going on? Nobody ever sat here! Not with him! Never! And Alfred, of all people? Didn't the American hate him?

"The only downside of our company," Arthur added, "Is Alfred and his awful music. Really, now!" he added, giving the American a half-hearted glare.

But that wasn't all. From the corner of his eyes, Ivan spotted Gilbert and Matthew, both holding trays of food, come up to the table. Gilbert was grinning at something his boyfriend had said, and without a second thought, both of them sat besides Ivan, sandwiching him between them.

"Sup, Commie?" Gilbert greeted.

"That's so rude!" Matthew snapped. Then, he smiled to Ivan. "Hello! How are you feeling?"

Ivan blinked at the four of them. If they noticed his surprise, they didn't comment on it. In fact, Alfred had engaged Gilbert in some conversation about Call of Duty, with Arthur interjecting his dry comments everywhere he could. Matthew grinned at Ivan.

"Matvey…"

"I have a marker," Matthew said, looking a little too cheerful. There was an almost cheeky glint in his eyes, as he fished something out of the breast pocket of his jacket.

"Marker?"

"To draw on your cast, of course," Gilbert responded. He leaned over Ivan and snatched the marker from Matthew. ("Hey!" the Canadian protested), before opening it and smirking towards Ivan. "So, what should I write?"

"W-what are you talking about?" Ivan was getting increasingly flustered. Really? Four people wanted to talk to him at the same time?! Ivan wasn't sure how many people in school knew of the attempted suicide. But gossip travelled fast. Was that why…? Well, Alfred probably knew because of Matthew, and Arthur was friends with the both of them.

"Your. Cast," Alfred articulated, pointing to the pristine white plaster on his arm. "Gil, I know! Write a dirty joke!"

Gilbert laughed. "Good idea! Let's all write dirty jokes!"

"No!" Matthew protested again. "Don't be so mean!" But there was an encouraging smile on his face. And Ivan found himself copying the expression.

"…If you write dirty jokes," Ivan said with an amazing lightness in his chest, "I will hit you with a pick-axe." And he smiled at the four of them.

"…Jeez. Well, that's creepy," Alfred muttered. But then, his smirk came right back to his face. "Write a dirty joke anyway!"

And later, when Ivan got up for seconds, Matthew came along. The Canadian wanted another helping of salad, and Ivan was still ravenous. "Take something more substantial," Matthew said, gesturing to the large bowl of roast chicken. "If you need help cutting the meat, we can do it for you."

Ivan blinked at Matthew, and then looked down at his cast. It was covered in perverted humour and interesting parts of the male anatomy (Alfred and Gilbert's doing). Matthew had drawn a cute snowman with a striped scarf and hat, and Arthur had written a formal sounding, _Get Well Soon, Ivan. _The Russian glanced back at Matthew.

"Exactly how many people know about…about that day?"

Matthew seemed a little stumped at the question. "Oh, I have no idea. But it doesn't matter." And then he smiled, pulling Ivan towards the food counter.

* * *

On the terrace, Lovino and Antonio were sharing a packed lunchbox. Antonio's, actually. Paella, and sliced tomatoes.

"What do you mean Roderich kissed you out of the blue?" Lovino questioned, biting into a tomato. The Spaniard had been moody and quiet for several days now, and had repeatedly avoided questioning. But with Antonio, Lovino had learnt, it was a waiting game.

The Spaniard sighed, taking a spoon full of paella. "Yeah," he managed through the food.

The Italian narrowed his eyes. "I see."

"That bastard," Antonio muttered, his eyes darkening.

"Agreed."

* * *

_After Lunch_

* * *

Arthur was skipping class. But then, so was the rest of the drama club. Mr. Walters, the absentee drama teacher, had finally decided to show his face. He never actually wanted to be the chairman of the drama club, and didn't care about it much. In fact, until Francis came along, the club had been languishing. The Frenchman had induced it with new life.

Mr. Walters, a portly, bored looking man, sat at the judging panel with his feet on the table, as Francis spoke to him in low tones. The rest of the auditorium was filled with acting hopefuls. They were about to begin auditions for the roles they could not fill.

Arthur had been slogging over the play, and he'd been quite happy with it. Until Francis had taken one look at it and muttered, "Such dry, British humour."

"That's what you'd wanted, you git!" Arthur had snapped.

"Mmh…change it."

This had happened a couple of times. Finally, however, Francis had decided he liked the fourth draft of the play, and that was what they were going with. Some things still had to be decided, though. That was exactly why Arthur was sitting next to Neel, backstage, talking about musical numbers.

"Have you actually thought of a rhythm for these songs?" Neel asked, flipping through his copy of the play. Arthur had managed to write quite a few funny stanzas, and he was damn proud of himself. They rhymed and everything.

"Well…some of them."

"We'll need a musician to actually make a CD for us," Neel muttered. "They're all perky songs, though, right?" his amber eyes looked momentarily concerned. "Because those are the best to dance to."

"Uh…"

He rolled his eyes. "Okay, so we can get some of the music class people to work on this. Antonio plays the guitar, doesn't he? You can ask Francis if Carriedo can help out."

"I'm not asking Francis _anything,_" Arthur spat.

Once more, Neel rolled his eyes.

Over the last two weeks, Arthur and Francis had been avoiding, arguing, and playing pranks on each other, usually at the expense of everybody else in the drama club. Just the other day, Vash had come tearing out from the green room, covered from head to toe in white powder—flour. "FRANCIS!" he'd shouted. "YOU'RE GOING TO CLEAN UP THAT GODDAMN MESS BEFORE I SHOOT YOU IN THE HEAD!"

Another time, Berwald got caught between a food fight. Before he even knew what had happened, Francis and Arthur were throwing scones and pudding at each other, and he just happened to be in the way. Elizabeta, while making announcements about the play in the corridors, got out-shouted by her two idiot teammates as they argued about everything from Shakespeare to wine to which country was the rightful coloniser of Canada. Lili and Magnus had been looking for Arthur, but when they'd asked Francis, the Frenchman just turned up his nose and muttered something under his breath.

It was utter chaos.

"Why can't you do it?" Arthur accused. "You play the guitar too, don't you?"

"Uh, no, I don't. I play the _sitar, _and unless you want your Shakespeare play to have Indian classical music, I'm not the one you need to ask. Damn it, Arthur, just talk to Francis about this! I need to go out there and help judge the candidates!"

The Englishman clamped down on Neel's wrist as the Indian stood. "No way. You ask Francis."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he grumbled. He jerked his head around, and spotted Elizabeta. The Hungarian was helping Vash carry some heavy stereo equipment. "Lizzie!"

She turned. "What?"

"Ask your boyfriend to help make some music for us."

Brightening at the mention of Roderich, she said, "Of course I will." Before going back to work.

Neel turned to Arthur. "Alright, here's the thing," he said, "I don't know what the heck happened between you and Francis, but solve it. _I _am _not _going to talk to him. You have to do it."

"But—"

"No, Arthur. This sexual frustration between you and him is starting to piss everyone off. Vash really _will _shoot someone." Glaring at Arthur, Neel added, "Now, if you'll excuse me, there's an audition to attend to."

And as Neel marched off, Arthur couldn't help but call after him. "It's NOT sexual frustration, you wanker!"

Without turning around, the other teen said, "Riiiiight."

* * *

_A Couple of Hours After School_

* * *

**Dear Mr. Walters,**

**I am writing this email to request permission to use the expensive stage lights from our 2013 event last year. I understand that the lights were damaged (once more, I must repeat that it was poor handling on my part, and **_**not**_** intentional vandalism by Antonio Carriedo and Gilbert Beilschmidt). I understand that they have been since repaired, and do hope for your positive response. Those lights would really give our play a certain kind of grandeur. **

**Thank you for your time.  
Warm regards,  
Francis Bonnefoy  
(Secretary, the Drama Club)**

Francis went over the email once again. He had to be super, super polite, because _of course _Antonio and Gilbert had thought it was hilarious to paint a set of fancy, expensive stage lights in rainbow colours, last year. His two friends had been given a month of detention, and Francis had been yelled at as well. (But it was all good fun, so who cared?)

It was bright and sunny outside, and Francis found his gaze wandering over to the window. His room was, of course, as neat and tidy as ever. He took a bite out of his puff pastry, and then had a long sip of coffee. His eyes were starting to hurt from staring at the computer for so long.

Saving the email as a draft, Francis got up from his chair and threw the window open. The gardener was mowing the lawn. The fountain was spouting water, and Francis could hear its soft splashing, even from this distance. Presently, a bird flew to one of the higher branches of the tree.

It all seemed quite serene.

Serene.

So much had happened over the last few weeks. So much.

When Gilbert had told Francis and Antonio about that whole drama with Ivan, Francis had spent an entire day cursing himself. He'd put his phone on silent and gone clubbing. That's why he didn't answer any of Gilbert's phone calls. That's why he hadn't been there to help his friend. At least Antonio had a legitimate excuse for switching off his phone. This whole business with Roderich…

Antonio had been more than a little miserable lately. It wasn't sorrow, like it had been before. Now, he just seemed irritated. Snippy and moody. It was so weird to see him like that. Really, he needed to start dating someone else. Both Francis and Gilbert agreed on this point. Someone to get his mind off Roderich.

Turning away from the window, Francis went right back to the computer and opened the draft email. Might as well just finish off…Lately, working for his precious drama club was starting to become a chore. The arguments—or worse, cold silences—between him and Arthur were really starting to depress him. They fought plenty, but when they _weren't _playing some stupid prank, or generally snapping at each other, they basically ignored the other's presence. This wasn't going how Francis had planned it…Strange. He was usually so good at solving other people's romantic problems. Why couldn't he solve his own?

Francis almost dropped his cup of coffee in surprise as he heard a familiar sound.

"KESESESESESE! This is going to be _AWESOME._"

Gilbert? Well, at least someone was cheerful.

Abruptly, his room door was thrown open. Gilbert marched in, along with a bored looking Antonio. Behind them, Ambriose entered, giving Francis an almost apologetic look.

"Franny!" Gilbert declared, flopping down on the bed and promptly messing up the neat folds.

"_Bonsoir, mes amis!" _Francis grinned, nodding reassuringly at Ambriose. The butler was never fully comfortable with these two. Too many broken vases and drunken messes. But by now, really, Ambriose should have been used to it. When the butler left, Francis continued, "What brings you two here?"

"We are going _out,_" Gilbert stated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Yup," Antonio chimed in. His expression brightened for a moment before falling flat again. "We haven't done anything fun in forever."

Francis looked at them, and then at the computer. Then, he looked back at his friends. "I take it we're staying out all night."

"Exactly," Gilbert cheered. "Grab your wallet, grab your jacket, grab your condoms-I mean, _you_ grab them, _I_ have a boyfriend. Kesesese! This is going to be awesome."

* * *

_Later That Night (2.30 AM.)_

* * *

At this point, it was important to understand the geography of the Kirkland home. It had two levels. A bathroom and four bedrooms upstairs, belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland, Dylan, Allistor, and Gráinne. Downstairs, the living room, the kitchen, and the smallest bedroom, shared by Arthur and Peter, and another bathroom. If you could climb outside their bedroom window, your feet would hit their grassy lawn.

Therefore, it was not surprising that only Arthur and Peter were disturbed by the ruckus.

Well, Peter, actually. Arthur was still fast asleep.

The youngest Kirkland awoke to laughter and loud, thudding noises coming from outside the window. A jolt of terror ran through him. Burglars? A murderer? Oh no, they were all going to die!

The curtains were drawn, but once Peter was awake, there was no mistaking the fact that there was somebody outside the window. The youngest Kirkland rolled of the bed and dropped to the floor, picturing himself to be some kind of British Intelligence spy, as he did. Crawling on all fours, he crossed the length of the room and went to Arthur's bed.

"Arthur…" he dared to stand, shaking his older brother's shoulder. "Arthur, wake up! There's someone outside the window!"

The thudding noises continued. It was like they were pelting stones at the window. Peter let out an involuntary whimper.

"Wha…" Arthur mumbled, lifting his head from the pillow. "Pete…what…"

And then he heard the noises as well.

Arthur was awake in an instant. "Who's outside?" he whispered, sitting up in bed.

"I don't _know!_" Peter cried in panic. "Robbers, maybe!" And then he jumped into Arthur's bed, making his older brother grumble a little. "There's laughter…weird laughter…"

Arthur frowned. "Shh…wait…that _is _weird laughter…"

And then he heard it. _Onhonhon! Fusosososo! Kesesese!_

"Bloody hell," the Englishman muttered, pushing himself off the bed.

"No!" Peter cried. "It could be dangerous."

"Bullocks. They're not murderers, Peter. They're just three drunken gits I have the misfortune of going to school with." He picked up his phone and checked the time. _I am going to kill them. _

Arthur switched on the light in the messy bedroom, marched over to the window, pulled back the curtains, and threw it open. And then, he groaned in exasperation. Francis, Antonio and Gilbert were right outside. The three of them stank like an entire brewery and were covered in glitter. They looked ruffled (a few of Francis's shirt buttons had come undone). Antonio had a pebble in his hand, and he was aiming straight for—

"Toni, no, he's awake!" Francis sauntered (stumbled) over to Arthur. "_Mon ami, _it is _très fantastique_ to see you on such a fine evening! You are awake too, I see! _L'amour_ is keeping you up at night? Onhonhonhon!"

Peter whimpered softly.

"You bloody wanker," Arthur hissed. "If my father wakes up, he'll have you three arrested!"

"Going to jail for love! How _tragique__!"_

"It's so sad!" Antonio exclaimed, his voice actually cracking in apparent grief.

"Franny, don't get distracted! Remember the plan!" Gilbert whispered, nudging his friend. To Arthur, the German—Prussian, whatever—said, "He is going to sing you a love song!"

"What?" Arthur and Peter questioned in unison.

_"__Ja!__"_

_"__Si!__"_

_"__Oui!__"_

"Leave. Now." Arthur crossed his arms.

"Arthur…" Peter whispered. "Should I get dad?"

"No need." Turning to his brother, Arthur knelt to Peter's level and whispered, "Listen, go to the bathroom, and get a bucket of water. I'll handle these three." Peter promptly nodded and ran out of the room.

"Listen to me!" Francis complained. "I will sing you a love song!"

"Please don't."

"And Gil and Toni will be my background singers."

"Oh dear."

Francis cleared his throat, and came even closer to the window. Antonio and Gilbert copied him. Arthur winced as the Frenchman took a deep breath, readying himself. "Why can't the English teach their children how to speak?" he declared. His drunken slur made it sound like a statement, almost a complaint.

"What?" and then it hit Arthur. Was that...was that the song from _My Fair Lady_? THAT BLOODY GIT. Francis wasn't even _singing_ it. He seemed to be just speaking the lyrics!

"This verbal class distinction, by now should be antique!" Pointing to Gilbert, he continued, "If you spoke as she does, sir—" Francis then motioned to Arthur, "Instead of the way you do, why, you might be selling flowers too."

Gilbert promptly quipped, "I bed your pardon, sir!"

A Frenchman, a Spaniard and a German were singing 'Why Can't The English Teach Their Children How to Speak?' _Really?_ Those bastards. Those uncultured pigs.

"An Englishman's way of speaking absolutely classifies him," Francis went on, and Arthur thought, _Damn right, _"The moment he talks—" and Francis gestured to Arthur, "—He makes some other Englishman despise him!" with his thumb, Francis pointed at his own chest. _Did he just refer to himself as an Englishman?_ Arthur thought. _Incredible. _

"You're not even singing," Arthur muttered, grinding his teeth together. The Bad Touch Trio completely ignored him. This was their version of a love ballad? Unbelievable. How completely pathetic.

"One common language, I'm afraid we'll never get! Oh, why can't the English set a good example, to people, whose English is painful to your ears?"

"Like yours, Francis?" Arthur snapped.

Once more, ignored.

"The Scotch and the Irish leave you close to tears!"

"You arsehole."

And it continued. The nightmare just continued. Francis had taken one of Arthur's favourite movies—and one of his favourite songs—and obliterated it. Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant. The whole thing would have been hilarious, if it hadn't been half past two in the morning, and if it hadn't been Francis of all people doing this.

"There are even places, where English completely disappears. In America, they haven't used it for years."

"Alright, I'll agree with that sentiment," Arthur muttered, crossing and uncrossing his arms. Where the hell was Peter?

_"_Norwegians learn Norwegian; the Greeks are taught their Greek," Francis went on.

Antonio finally intervened, "In France every Frenchman knows his language from _A_ to _Zed_!"

And Gilbert said, "The French never care what they _do, _actually, as long as they _pronounce_ it properly."

"_Oui, mes amis, oui._ Arabians learn Arabian with the speed of summer lightning. And Hebrews learn it backwards, which is absolutely frightening."

Antonio: "But use proper English, you're regarded as a freak. Why can't the English—"

_(Peter came staggering into the room, a huge bucket of water in his arms.)_

Gilbert: "Why can't the English—"

_(Arthur wordlessly took it from him, and lifted it easily.)_

Francis: "Learn to—"

"Speak," Arthur finished, and the Bad Touch Trio was drenched in ice cold water.

* * *

_6.30 AM_

* * *

"Oh, _mon Dieu,_" Ambriose said to himself in an undertone as he entered the foyer of the huge Bonnefoy house from his quarters. Francis, Antonio and Gilbert were passed out in a heap on the floor. Sometime during the night, Francis must have lost all his clothes, because he was dressed in black, lacy women's underwear. How did that bra even fit around his chest? And the thong—no, Ambriose didn't want to look.

Antonio, meanwhile, was shirtless, but at least he was wearing pants. He lay flat on his back, and Ambriose noticed a grotesque tattoo on his collarbone. Inside a pink heart, the words _I love Edward Cullen. _

Gilbert looked the most unharmed. If this was the Bad Touch Trio's definition of 'unharmed'. He was fully clothed, and was sleeping on his stomach. The only thing that amused Ambriose about the whole thing was the colour of his hair.

Usually, Gilbert's hair was silver.

Right now, it was pink.

Also, all three of them were covered in glitter.

Ambriose rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out what to do about this situation. There was no way he could carry the three of them into a bedroom, or even onto a couch. Not with his poor back! Could he ask one of the maids…no, he didn't want to subject those sweet women to Master Bonnefoy's disturbing cross-dressing.

Well, in that case, there was only one thing to do.

Ambriose disappeared, and came back once again with a large blanket. Biting back his laughter, he draped it over the three of them. More for the sakes of any unfortunate witnesses, really.

And then he left them there, and continued on his way.

* * *

_The Next Day_

* * *

Facebook. Fucking Facebook.

They couldn't even remember _what _had transpired the previous night. All they remembered was waking up on Francis's floor with a blanket over them, looking like Las Vegas's worst nightmare. They didn't end up going to school that day. Antonio almost screamed when he saw that tattoo on his collarbone. (Gilbert would have laughed, but he had his own problem to deal with.) _THE DYE ON HIS HAIR WAS NOT COMING OFF. _

He'd expected to get a yelling from his parents for being out all night, but when Gilbert staggered into the house later that afternoon, his mother had taken one look at him and cackled in laughter. "Serves you right!" she'd managed through shrieks of mirth. When Ludwig and then their father, had come back from school and work respectively, Gilbert ended up becoming the laughing stock of the whole family.

Then, Matthew sent him a text.

**Gilbert. Facebook. Now. **

And that was when the albino decided to move to a remote Amazonian jungle.

Antonio, meanwhile, got off easy. After listening to his mother yell at him for half an hour, he managed to look up a tattoo parlour that would remove the offending ink mark on his skin, and promptly booked an appointment. _I love Edward Cullen _inside a HEART. A _PINK _heart. What in the world…? Antonio hadn't even watched a Twilight movie before. Ever. Honest.

Okay, he may have watched it that _one _time.

And let's be frank here, Robert Pattinson is rather attractive.

Even if Twilight sucked.

But then, Lovi called him up. _"Tomato Bastard…" _he sounded…disappointed? Resigned? Amused? A combination of the three? _"You better have a good explanation for all these Facebook pictures. I don't want to be associated with you anymore."_

Only Francis seemed absolutely ecstatic about this whole thing. "_Mon Dieu! _I look absolutely _fabulous _in these pictures!" he cried to no-one in particular. Then, he proceeded to finger the lingerie. "I wonder what her name was…she must have been so beautiful! A woman with taste! This is Victoria's Secret, Spring Catalogue." With a happy grin, he put the underwear beneath his pillow.

And, of course: **Why Can't the English Teach Their Children How To Speak? I don't bloody know, why can't the French teach their children how to sing? You utter and complete imbecile. **

Francis laughed, and texted back: **But you love me? :P**

Arthur's response made Francis snicker. **LOVE YOU? Goddamnit, Francis, you awoke my brother and I at two-thirty in the morning and SPOKE the most unromantic song in the world to me. About people mispronouncing English. You FRENCH wanker, how dare you? And you cal**

**And you called it a love song. You're losing your touch, my friend. **

Francis smirked. **But you love me! :D **

Arthur's reply was curt and prompt. **No. **

Francis refused to accept it. Instead, he typed, **No? You mean 'not yet'. I shall try harder. ;)**

The Englishman didn't deign to respond.

* * *

The Bad Touch Trio had always been popular, but now, when they entered school, literally everyone started whispering. Many started to laugh. Others cheered. Gilbert was wearing a woollen cap with earflaps and tassles, something that would completely cover his hair. _Amazingly, _despite all of those embarrassing pictures, nobody managed to get photographic evidence of Gilbert's new look. He still didn't know what to do about it, apart from shaving his head completely. If Francis was to be believed, the dye was long-lasting.

Antonio was wearing a turtle neck, but the damage was done, anyway. There was a picture of that tattoo going absolutely viral online.

Once more, only Francis seemed happy about this. He waltzed down the corridors, saying, "_Oui, _my dears, want an autograph? Stand in line! No pushing."

* * *

"Team Edward!" Lovino cheered, a vicious smirk on his face. "Team Sparkly Jackass!"

"I don't even _remember _what happened," Antonio groaned, covering his face with his hands. His tanned skin had darkened considerably. Every time someone laughed about the tattoo, he would give rueful looks towards them, mumbling excuses in a combination of English and Spanish.

"Really?" Lovino snickered. "The version I've heard is, you and those assholes you call friends walked into a tattoo parlour to get some dragons and swords shit done on your faces, but you got carried away by some sparkly outfit someone was wearing and got Edward Cullen instead." Openly laughing in Antonio's face, Lovino continued, "That Dane…Magnus whatever…he took all the pictures."

"What?"

"Yeah. _Apparently, _he and Feliks were out clubbing, too. Shit went downhill from there."

"How do you know this?" Antonio cried.

"You bastard. _Everyone _knows this. Didn't you see the picture captions properly? Magnus and Feliks gave a full news report on you and your Bad Touch Trio. Sparkly Bastard."

Antonio groaned again. "So mean, Lovi."

And Lovino grinned some more, if possible. "Sparkly Bastard."

* * *

Gilbert slid up to Matthew as the Canadian stood by his locker. There was a bright red blush on his pale face. The Canadian saw him and smirked a little. Ivan, at least, hadn't been this bad. The Russian had just smiled at him in amusement before saying, "Your pole-dancing skills are quite something, _da, _Gilbert?" Presently, Matthew was biting the inside of his cheeks, his face turning red with the effort to keep a straight face.

"Why are you wearing that weird cap?" Matthew asked as Gilbert approached. He reached out for it.

"No!"

But Matthew lifted it slightly and saw the colour of Gilbert's hair.

He spent the next fifteen minutes laughing.

* * *

"Dude, like, I'll be needing my underwear back."

"What?" Francis whipped around, staring at Feliks. "_Your _underwear? You mean…that lingerie…"

"Yup," Magnus smirked, leaning against the classroom wall. "You and Feliks decided to play some sort of weird stripping sex game. I don't even _know, _but lemme tell you, it wasn't attractive. And you guys swapped underwear, and chucked all your clothes into a garbage bin."

"Feliks…" Francis gasped, his eyes saucers. "You wear Victoria's Secret?"

"Spring Catalogue," the Polish teen deadpanned.

"_Mon ami_, you have excellent taste."

"I know, right!?"

"But tell me something, for memory fails me...what exactly happened last night?"

Magnus and Feliks looked at each other and snorted. The Dane said, "Well, at three in the morning, you and your buddies entered the club we were in. You guys were already pretty drunk, and covered in glitter. And you kept talking about Englishmen and speaking English and English-this, and English-that." Shaking his head in confusion, he added, "Oh yeah, you guys were absolutely soaked. Like you'd gone swimming with all your clothes on. _Anyway,_ Feliks and I came up to you and...ah, my memory's a bit fuzzy too. But there was a lot of alcohol. It was epic."

* * *

_Later. Much Later._

* * *

"…I didn't know you could pole-dance so well, Gilbert," Antonio commented as the three of them sat on Francis's bed. A laptop was placed between them, as they flipped through the pictures. This one had Gilbert shaking his butt in the camera, as one of his hands were clasped around a metal pole. Where was this even taken? The next picture was similar, except that Magnus had taken a laughing selfie with Gilbert in the background, trying to Moonwalk on the platform.

"I have hidden talents," Gilbert said as he went to the next picture. "Tsk, Toni." There was Antonio, apparent tears in his eyes as the tattoo artist etched that godawful thing into his skin. Feliks, Francis, Magnus and Gilbert were all in the picture, cheering Antonio on.

Some more pictures. Antonio posing with a happy grin, showing off his new tattoo. Gilbert holding a can of pink spray paint, looking at it curiously. Feliks and Francis stripping.

"Next one, next one!" Francis cried, excited. Gilbert obeyed. The Frenchman whooped in joy. In this picture, Francis and Feliks were having a drinking contest. In each other's underwear. Francis was wearing the lacy lingerie, and Feliks was wearing a boring pair of black boxers. "Am I not _beautiful_?" the Frenchman crowed.

"I am scarred for life," Antonio declared.

"_Ja, _me too."

They snapped the laptop shut.

* * *

**A/N: That was fun.**

**All of us NEEDED a chapter like that after all the previous depressing stuff, me especially! XD This was totally random, but I'm really, really happy with it. It was inspired by a lot of things. The song **_**Last Friday Night **_**by Katy Perry, the latest installment of Spinyfruit's **_**The Romantic Developments of Antonio and Lovino Through Texts **_**(if you haven't read this awesome fic, you really should), and several, several pictures of BTT going crazy on Tumblr. Gilbert's hair was actually inspired by something drawn in an "Ask The BTT" blog. **

**I leave you with this chapter, my awesome readers. I shall be back from my adventures on the 21****st****. And then, we're going back to depressing stuff. (Though, not **_**that **_**depressing. The worst of it, the PruCan, is over. Only Spamano and FrUK left.)**

**On a more serious note, as you can see, I've tried to wrap things up with Ivan, too. Yay, he has friends now :3 And the FrUK has developed well. And Lovino is all set to go all Mafia!Romano on Roderich's ass. :D Woot, woot!**

**Okay, that's it from me. **

**Thanks for reading! Please review! :D **


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Hey! I got some free time, and (even better) some free wifi! So I was able to update! I'm still travelling, haha :P**

**I want to finish this fic in the next four or five chapters. Updates will be longer and slower. Also, I've decided to start another story, a three-chapter Spamano fic about dance. I've already written up one chapter, and I'll put it up after this fic ends. **

**I'm sorry if this chapter seems rushed. It just wasn't coming out right. I was struggling with it so much! And I'm so, so, **_**so **_**sorry for the sucky GerIta *Facepalm*. Although your ideas really helped me! Thank you for that.**

_**Nichts. Nichts von Bedeutung: **_**Nothing, nothing of importance.**

_**Ich bin auf die toilette gehen: **_**I am going to the toilet.**

**_Arschlöcher: _Assholes**

_**¡Imbéciles!, ¡estúpida perra!, ese infiel, mentiroso bastardo austriaco!**__**: **_**Assholes! Stupid bitch! That lying, cheating Austrian bastard! **

**You know the drill. I've used Google Translate, so there might be errors. If you spot any (especially you, my eagle-eyed Spanish-speaking friends!) let me know, and I'll make the corrections! ****Also, I have a head-canon where Ludwig starts muttering to himself in German when he gets really, really flustered.**

* * *

Arthur was getting rather frustrated with Alfred. The American seemed distracted, edgy, and completely intent on kicking everyone out of the house. They were sitting in his bedroom, with Arthur trying to talk to Alfred about this whole stupid situation with Francis. The damn American wasn't listening. Instead, he was trying to _clean his room. _Stuffing things under his bed, chucking stuff _en masse _into his wardrobe, dusting his table with the sleeves of his bomber jacket…

"Are you even listening to me?" Arthur finally snapped.

"What? Yeah, totally, dude." Alfred threw open his room door, and shouted, "MATTIE? ARE YOU DONE ALREADY? IT'S ALMOST SEVEN O'CLOCK!"

From her bedroom, Amelia yelled, "Alfred! Don't shout!"

"Mom?" Alfred replied, "Are you ready? You're done, right?"

For the last half an hour, Alfred had been 'encouraging' his family members to get ready and go out. Matthew had some big date with Gilbert, Amelia was going for an office party. The American groaned and whipped around, looking at Arthur with a deadpan stare. "They take so long to get dressed, I swear."

"Why are you trying to kick everyone out, though?"

"A friend's coming over," Alfred muttered, shifty, as he sat on his bed next to Arthur. "So, yeah, what were you saying about your boyfriend?"

"He is NOT my boyfriend!"

"But you want him to be, right? And he serenaded you in the dead of night. That's hilarious, in a cute sort of way."

"Shut up, Alfred."

"Really, I don't get it. You like him, he likes you. What's the problem?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "I don't expect you to understand."

Alfred blinked at him, and suddenly jumped to his feet. "I know!" he cried, and scrambled out of the room. Arthur blinked in confusion, until he suddenly heard a strangled cry of protest and excited chattering, before Alfred pulled Matthew into his room, presenting him with a flourish and a shove so hard that the Canadian almost fell on top of Arthur.

Matthew was wearing a suit. A black suit, a white shirt, his hair neatly combed, and a tie in his hand. He weakly glared at his older brother before forcibly softening his gaze as he looked at Arthur. "Sorry about almost falling on you. Al said something about you having to talk to me?"

"What?" Arthur questioned, blinking at Alfred.

"Matthew is part-French," Alfred replied, as though that explained everything. When Arthur's look of confusion only deepened, the American sighed and went on, "Just ask him about your relationship problems. He'll sort you out in no time."

"That's not how it works, Al…" Matthew muttered.

"And he has a steady boyfriend, so he's got more experience than I do."

"Well," Arthur muttered, "If you put it that way…"

The Canadian pressed the bridge of his nose in irritation, before turning to the mirror in Alfred's room and trying to fix his tie. He didn't get very far, and was making an ugly mess of it.

"Want me to help?" Arthur questioned.

The Canadian turned around, looked Arthur right in the eye, and the Englishman was sure he saw a small sly grin slip onto his lips. It was there and gone in less than a second, so quickly that Arthur was sure he'd imagined it. And then Matthew said, "Oh, no, don't worry about it. Gil can help me out."

_That's a rather suggestive response, _Arthur caught himself thinking. Maybe Alfred was right about talking to Matthew. In any case, the Canadian definitely had more experience in the relationship department. Arthur glanced at Alfred to see if the American had noticed Matthew's little smirk, but Alfred was too busy cleaning a stain on his shirt to even notice.

"So, Francis and I…" Arthur began.

"Yeah, I know the gist of it," Matthew said. "Gilbert told me about the serenading." Snickering a little, he said, "_Why Can't the English_…you have to admit that's funny."

"Hmmph." Arthur crossed his arms in indignation. "Yes, well, before that, I kissed him. I was a little tipsy."

"It always takes a bit of alcohol for both of you to loosen up with each other," the Canadian noted. "That's interesting."

"Yes, fascinating."

"So, what's the problem? You both like each other…and you both know it."

This question kept coming back to bite him in the ass, didn't it? Arthur didn't know _why _he felt the need to argue with Francis for no apparent reason. But he knew it felt better than to go snogging him at every opportunity. Francis wouldn't shut up about it. That damn Frog would enjoy himself a little too much. Besides, Arthur was so terrible at being _sentimental…_

With a sigh, he took out his phone and opened a chat window. "Francis and I were texting each other, before. Why don't you have a look?"

**Francis: Mon cher, I know this nice restaurant…and we can go to my place for…dessert ;)  
Arthur: No. Leave me alone.  
Francis: Stop resisting, cher. I can woo you in my sleep. :P  
Arthur: That's the only place you can 'woo' me. IN YOUR DREAMS.**

"Ah." Matthew read through the messages with a tiny, knowing grin on his face. "You're playing hard-to-get. Though I don't see why, because Francis already knows you like him. If you keep resisting, he's just going to enjoy the chase a lot more."

"It's because he's too sarcastic and snappy to go all mushy and romantic," Alfred offered, throwing himself on his bed in laziness. "He's a tsundere."

"What?" Arthur and Matthew asked in unison.

The American actually _blushed. _"Nothing. Forget I said anything."

"What the _hell _is 'tsundere'?" Arthur spluttered.

"It's a word Kiku told me about…It doesn't matter, dude." Laughing, Alfred said, "So, Mattie, what sage advice do you have for Artie?"

Matthew shrugged, nonchalant. "You know how it is. Play hard-to-get, and it's fun, initially. But then something happens and the whole act collapses on itself, and it either ends in laughter or tears. Really, it's up to Arthur. I personally wouldn't advise it, but if it works for Arthur and Francis, well, it works for them."

"Wow, you're good," Arthur mused.

"It's nothing," Matthew said in his characteristic modesty.

Just then, Arthur's phone beeped. The Englishman looked at it, groaned, and wordlessly passed it to Matthew.

**Francis: Allo, Black Sheep! Doing anything tonight? :P Want to 'discuss' the play? **

"Black Sheep?" Matthew questioned.

"It's this ridiculous nickname he came up for me years ago. Because he thinks England is the Black Sheep of Europe, and he thinks I'm so pathetic that I'm the Black Sheep of England, and now he just calls me that all the time. But that's fine. I call him Frog."

"That's…convoluted. Gilbert just calls me Birdie because he likes birds and thinks they're cute. But hey, Black Sheep is a sweet, thoughtful nickname."

Alfred laughed.

"Both of you, shut up," Arthur snapped.

This time, the siblings both smirked at each other.

* * *

Pizza, wine, and _The Godfather 2. _Lovino had his legs tucked underneath him as he sat on the couch with a shawl draped over his shoulders, eating, drinking, and curling his fists in excitement as he watched the movie.

"Where's _nonno_, ve?" Feliciano questioned, his soft footsteps coming up to Lovino and sitting down on the couch beside him.

"Out on some date with some pretty young thing," Lovino deadpanned, eyes still glued to the screen. "He won't be back until tomorrow, I bet. The pervert."

The doorbell rang at that exact moment, and Feliciano let out squawk of happiness before jumping to his feet and dashing to answer it. Lovino watched from the corner of his eyes, alternating between glaring at his brother and staring at the television. Feliciano was going out on a 'date' tonight. At least, it sounded like a date to Lovino. Feliciano insisted it wasn't. Lovino _hoped _it wasn't. But by now, the elder Vargas had basically given up on separating Feli from his goddamn Potato Bastard.

Lovino paused the movie as he saw Ludwig at the threshold.

"Potato Sucker," Lovino called out, and Ludwig sighed.

"Yes?"

"Feli better be back by ten, or I'll go fucking mafia on you. And _Mio Dio, _if you try anything with him, I will fucking castrate you! And if you hurt him in any way, I'll shoot you in your stupid, potato-eating face! Are we clear?"

Ludwig sighed once more, clearly not taking any of this seriously. "Yes, of course. Clear as crystal."

* * *

"Go. Go. Go!"

With each word 'go', Alfred respectively pushed his mother, his brother, and his best friend out of the house. Gilbert, at the door, blinked in abject confusion at this. His hair was back to its usual silver again; Francis had bleached it. Amelia glared at her son, and Arthur just rolled his eyes. When Gilbert saw Matthew's tie, he said, "Whoa, want me to fix that?" They were going to a pretty fancy place. Even the albino was dressed up.

Matthew blushed, and Arthur saw a flicker of pretence in his shy demeanour. "Oh, yes, could you?" the Canadian said.

Well, damn. Matthew really was part-French, huh.

Amelia kissed her two sons on their heads, and even patted Gilbert and Arthur on the shoulder, before saying, "Don't wait up." A call-cab was waiting for her, and she quickly climbed in. As the taxi pulled out of the driveway, Alfred checked his watch.

"Right. Good night, guys."

"Have fun on your date," Matthew said with a cheeky grin.

"It certainly _sounds _like a date…" Arthur teased.

"Suuuuuuure," Alfred said, crossing his arms across his chest. "Dudes, don't be stupid. Kiku's just coming over to play video games!"

"Romantic as fuck," Gilbert said with a sagely nod, lifting his head slightly from fixing Matthew's tie. The Canadian was clearly enjoying the attention. This was exactly the sort of thing Francis would encourage. Damn it, they always worked, though. The Frenchman was so good at _romance, _and Arthur simply wasn't. Stupid Francis. Stupid, stupid Francis!

Arthur's phone beeped again.

**Are you thinking of me? :P**

The Englishman frowned. That conceited bastard.

**Of course I'm not bloody thinking of you. Sod off.**

Francis responded immediately

**Well, I'm thinking of you. :)**

Arthur couldn't decide if he should chuck his phone against a wall, blush and start laughing, or hide his face under a paper bag.

* * *

This was the tarantella song, right? Yes, this one. The one cute Lovi was drumming his fingers to that day. Antonio listened to it with his eyes closed, trying to understand the rhythm and chords exactly. Antonio had been able to get that ridiculous tattoo off his skin, _thank god. _And with Francis's help, Gilbert's hair had gone back to its usual silver. Hehe, that had been one hell of a night out.

But now, Antonio focused on this tarantella music. What a snappy tune. Easy to recreate with his acoustic guitar, too. Antonio strummed experimentally, tuning it to perfection. It took a while to calibrate the guitar, but in the end, he was able to get it right. He didn't know why he was doing this. But wouldn't it be fun to play for Lovi while he danced tarantella? Oh, that would be _so cute._

Antonio strummed, stumbling occasionally on the notes. The music ran through his fingers, and he could all but picture Lovino tapping his feet to it. He tried to imagine the look on his Italian's face. Lovi would probably be mad, but then, he was always mad about something. Still, Antonio didn't want to invade his privacy. He'd just learn how to play the music, that was all. Maybe one day, Lovino would dance for him. Antonio didn't want to push Lovi.

Until that day, though, he'd just contend himself with imagining Lovino dance, dance with joy.

* * *

Feliciano was more than happy to just sit in this café, prattling on about everything under the moon, watching Ludwig. Some might think that Ludwig was cold, stoic. His _fratello _definitely thought so. But Feliciano knew better. He could tell what Ludwig was thinking, simply by the way his eyes reacted. From the slight widening of surprise, to the mild crinkling of humour. Ludwig's thin lips would also twitch. It had taken a while, but Feliciano had eventually learnt how to read him. Read him like an open Italian cookbook with dog-eared pages in the pasta section.

Ludwig _pretended _to study the menu. He always did that. He would sigh in thought as he flipped the page, his eyes scanning up and down the list of foods. And then he'd close it and simply mutter, "I think I'm going to have some wrust/mashed potatoes/beer."

That's what Feliciano had expected him to do. He wasn't sure if this tiny coffee shop would serve either of his three favourites; they didn't even serve pasta! Feliciano had to manage with a cappuccino and a smoked chicken sandwich. _Boring. _

The German put his menu down with a sigh, and muttered, "I think I'll just eat what you're eating."

"What?" Feliciano blinked. "They don't have mashed potatoes?"

"Uh, _ja, _they do, but…" and then his eyes met Feliciano's and his voice trailed away. He swallowed, and then finished, "Yours just looks more interesting."

"Oh." And Feliciano suddenly felt very conscious of Ludwig's crystal blue eyes.

* * *

"_I don't feel like I have to wipe everybody out, Tom. Just my enemies."_

Lovino paused the movie and stared at it. He had, of course, watched it a hundred times over. He knew the whole thing off by-heart. He could quote it in his sleep. Godfather movies resonated with him, they just echoed inside his head, cold, powerful and sinister.

But that dialogue seemed to stir something up inside him.

_I don't feel like I have to wipe everybody out, Tom. Just my enemies._

Had Antonio seen this movie? The Sparkly Bastard would like it. Just like he enjoyed the first Godfather installment they'd watched that day, so many weeks ago. Antonio would love all the action, and he'd feel really sorry for Kay, poor Kay, and even Michael. Tom Hagen, too.

_Just my enemies._

Lovino picked up his phone and texted Antonio.

**What's up, Sparkly Bastard? **

Antonio took a moment to respond. **Aww, not fair :( I got that tattoo removed! Anyway, I was just playing the guitar :D How about you?**

Guitar. Piano. Music. Roderich. Asshole.

**Me? **Lovino texted, his eyes darkening. **Just sitting around, plotting revenge.**

Antonio replied, **Revenge for what? O.O And on whom?**

Lovino switched off his phone, and resumed watching a movie. Maybe _The Godfather 2 _would help give him some ideas. And then maybe he could re-watch the whole series. That was bound to help in some way or another…

* * *

"Feliciano," Ludwig began slowly, not meeting his eyes. "I wanted to tell you something."

"Ve? What is it, Luddy?"

Ludwig took a deep breath, putting his sandwich down on his plate. He wiped his hands on a piece of tissue, and swallowed in nervousness. "Feli, for a long time, I've been…well, you, you're…uh…I may have—no, not may, I _do _have…um…"

Feliciano laughed. "You're making no sense!" and then he reached out, his delicate fingers wiping a small spot of mayonnaise of the corner of Ludwig's mouth. "There, that's better, ve!" he exclaimed in happiness. "Now, what did you want to tell me?"

But Ludwig was absolutely scarlet. "_Nichts. Nichts von Bedeutung_." At Feliciano's confused expression, he pushed his sandwich away from himself, still mumbling to himself in German. "_Ich bin auf die toilette gehen._" He stood, looking a little disoriented, and stumbled off into the direction of the bathrooms.

"Ve, what was that about?" Feliciano muttered to himself.

* * *

_Before Class the Next Morning_

* * *

Roderich was looking forward to this evening. He would be meeting Elizabeta for a movie. They would watch _The Sound of Music_; Roderich's choice, of course. He walked down the corridor to the lockers. Students were everywhere, and the buzz of his environment was grating on Roderich's ears. Why couldn't they just keep their voices _down_?

Roderich inwardly complained about this, but his train of thought was interrupted by a large crowd in the corridor, blocking his path.

Over the cacophony, Roderich heard Alfred Jones's voice. "This is awwwwwkwarrrd."

"Perhaps, but _désolé. _I have no sympathies."

What was going on? And why were they crowding around—

Roderich pushed past the crowd, a bad feeling rising in his chest. "Oh dear lord," he whispered, staring in open-mouthed horror at the state of his locker.

Someone had vandalised it.

With garish red spray-paint, someone had printed the words, _LAIR CHEATER BASTERD _onto the door. But that wasn't all. The locker was open. All his books and pens had been thrown onto the floor, and the locker was completely covered from the inside with pictures of guitars. Guitars everywhere, old, new, acoustic, electric, guitars in all shapes, sizes and colours.

Roderich narrowed his eyes.

The crowd consisted of all sorts of idiots, but he could see _The Bad Touch Trio, _those absolute _arschlöcher _right in the front. Francis looked disdainful, his arms crossed, his nose in the air. Gilbert was laughing, his red eyes full of malice. Antonio, standing between them, just stared at the ruined locker. His eyes were empty.

Roderich looked at him. Antonio looked back.

* * *

Lovino stared at his handiwork. He hid in the crowd, going as unnoticed as ever. His only regret was misspelling the word 'bastard', damn his stupid dyslexia! But anyway, Roderich got the point. And the embarrassment. Perfect.

Someone pushed into the crowd and came right to the fore. Ah, Elizabeta. Her eyes were cold. "What is this, Roderich?" she questioned softly.

Roderich's eyes sharpened as he glanced at Antonio. And he was…_smiling_? Fuck, why was the Austrian Bastard _smiling_? He came up to Elizabeta, took her hand, and led her out of the crowd. Lovino was able to make out the words 'I'll tell you' and 'Darling'.

* * *

**Toni did u do that 2 eldesteins lockr?**

Antonio glanced at Gilbert's message under the desk. He didn't know what to feel about this whole thing, but a dark, bitter part of him was pleased at the revenge. Roderich had it coming, the asshole. It was English, and he kept a listening ear out for the teacher; he didn't want his phone taken away from him.

Quickly, hastily, he punched in an answer.

**No I thought you did?**

Gilbert took a while to reply, but his response was long and detailed. **Mein gott no. if it wer up 2 me i would have hit him instead, but u never let either me or francis do anything 2 him. **

Actually, Antonio wasn't that curious. He had a sneaking suspicion of who the culprit was. No self-respecting vandal would intentionally misspell a word like 'bastard'. It had to be someone who was naturally bad with letters. Lovino. But why would Lovi do something like that? It was like he was taking his revenge _for _Antonio. It wouldn't fit his personality type, would it? Hmm…actually, it would.

**Lovi :) hey, did you ruin Roderich's locker, lol? **

Lovino took a really long time to reply. **Don't text in class, bastard. **

Antonio looked around the room, but of course, English was one of the few classes they didn't share. Lovi was probably in Food Tech or something right now. **Well, was it you? :)**

Once again, Lovino took his time. But his response made Antonio bite back a laugh. **No, it was Don Fucking Corelone. DON'T TEXT IN CLASS.**

* * *

_After School—At the Grocery Store_

* * *

Antonio checked off the list his mother had given him. Tomatoes, carrots, milk, eggs, toilet paper, pens, orange juice. He hated grocery stores, they were so _boring. _But his mother was at work, of course, and had no time to do the household stuff. Antonio had learnt early on how to handle these things. He could basically run a house all on his own, no problem. He enjoyed the independence, although shopping and cleaning the toilets were no fun at all.

He walked down the vegetable aisle, looking for tomatoes. Red, juicy, Roma tomatoes. Romano. Lovino's other name. He smiled to himself, idly. It was really sweet of Lovino, in a twisted sort of way. The teachers were furious with the mess on Roderich's locker, but the culprit was yet to be found. Antonio doubted they'd ever catch Lovi, though. Somehow, he got the feeling that the Italian was far too cunning, far too careful to get into trouble that way.

"You bastard."

Antonio had become attuned to responding with a smile to those words, but that was _not _Lovino's voice. It was feminine. It was familiar. It was Elizabeta. Antonio whipped around in surprise, to see the Hungarian march up to him. Tear tracks marred her cheeks, but her green eyes were dark and fiery.

"How DARE you, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo!?" she shrieked, making several shoppers look up and raise their eyebrows. The Spaniard's mouth was hanging slightly open as she suddenly pushed him.

Hard.

Antonio was so unprepared for it that he actually fell backwards, landing heavily on his back.

"Excuse me," said a shop assistant finally, approaching the pair. "What seems to be the problem, Miss?" The woman looked from Elizabeta to Antonio, still on the floor, trying to figure out if this was self-defence or a lover's spat.

"It's personal," Elizabeta snarled. And then, louder, she shouted, "Antonio, you fucking asshole! Roderich told me everything!"

Oh shit. Antonio should have been expecting something like this. Elizabeta's reaction! Dammit, he'd not even thought about that! Wait, what was she even talking about? Roderich had told her what, now?

"…_¿Qué?_" he asked, his voice shaking just a little. Gingerly, he got to his feet.

"Don't play dumb! He told me what happened when you went to his place to collect your things! He told me how you kissed him and begged for him to take you back!"

Huh?

Antonio blinked at her. "He told you _what_!?" the Spaniard didn't mean to shout, but his voice had come out louder and fiercer than he'd intended to.

Elizabeta was sobbing angry tears as she said, "Fuck you, Carriedo! Can't you just leave us the hell alone? He doesn't want you, okay? Just back the fuck off, and stop vandalising his things!"

"_WHAT_?"

The store manager had come up to them. Several customers had left the store. Several others were crowding around the fight. People were murmuring.

"Break it up, you two," the store manager said, coming in between them. "Sir, please don't shout at a woman. You're being a complete dick."

"Yeah!" someone else said. "Apologise to her."

There was a collective murmur of agreement.

Antonio stared at all of them, then at Elizabeta, who had crossed her arms in anticipation.

"Fine then," Antonio said, barely managing to suppress the clawing, furious rage that was taking over him. "Fine. I'm sorry, Elizabeta. I'm sorry Roderich's playing you like a game of chess." He left his trolley—and all of its contents—right in the middle of the aisle, and walked out of the store.

* * *

Francis winced as Antonio threw a random textbook against the wall. The poor thing ripped into half in mid-air, hitting the plaster with so much force that Francis was genuinely surprised it didn't leave a crack. Antonio was also marching up and down the floor, his feet hitting the ground with force enough to bruise the pads of his toes.

Gilbert looked worriedly at the Frenchman, who just shrugged back. Wisely, Francis had put the wine back into the cabinet. Nobody wanted an angry Antonio near glass bottles. Angry Antonio was the scariest thing to ever happen.

"I swear to fucking god that bastard has no limits!" Antonio growled, picking up Francis's hairbrush and throwing it against another wall. On any other day, the Frenchman would have tackled Antonio to the ground and punched up until the Spaniard apologised, but neither Gilbert nor Francis _dared _pissing off Toni when he was already this mad. They didn't have a death wish.

"So, Elizabeta just started screaming at you in front of everyone?" Gilbert ventured.

"Yes. That stupid bitch!" _Thawck. Smash. _Assorted pens, books, desktop items came crashing to the floor. Francis bit his bottom lip.

"Toni, _mon cher, _how about we go outside, in the lawn? _Oui_? You will feel better if you hit trees instead."

"No."

Francis raised his hands up in front of him and took an involuntary step back. "Okay, okay. Sorry. Continue."

"Who the fuck yells at you in front of fucking strangers in a fucking grocery store? I mean, is she even serious? And then everyone suspects I've molested her or something so they turn on me, because I ask 'what' in a loud voice. _¡Imbéciles!, ¡estúpida perra!, ese infiel, mentiroso bastardo austriaco!"  
_

By the end of Antonio's half-hour rant, Francis's room looked like the origin point of an earthquake. Scattered glass everywhere, pens, ink, torn paper, even Francis's _wardrobe _had been ransacked. But the Frenchman was thankful. There were times when Antonio had turned on _Gilbert and Francis _in his fits of rage. Of course, he would always apologise later, and the duo knew that the Spaniard had genuine anger problems—although he never actually got angry that often—so they let it slide. Francis would simply exact his revenge on Antonio later.

The Spaniard sat on the floor, right in the middle of his mess. He seemed tired from all that shouting. His head was in his hands. "I don't know what to _do._"

Nobody said anything for a while, but Gilbert quietly went and sat down next to Toni. Putting a hand on his shoulder, the Prussian said, "Toni, Francis and I have been thinking…"

Antonio looked up, weary.

"Well, it's just…you've been upset about Roderich for a while now. This shit with Elizabeta and the ruined locker will tide over eventually, it doesn't matter in the long run. But we're worried about _you. _You still seem too sensitive about Roderich in general."

"What are you saying?" the Spaniard questioned, a hint of aggression colouring his tone. Francis decided it was time to jump in.

"Basically, _mon ami, _we think it's time you get back into the dating scene. It doesn't have to be anything serious! Just casual stuff, you know? It helps. It helped me so much when Jeanne left."

"Casual sex helps you though _anything, _Francis," Gilbert snorted, and Francis cracked a smile.

Antonio, however, was looking at them with wide, thoughtful eyes. "Who do you have in mind, exactly?" The question made him feel heavy with nervousness. For some reason, it filled him with a deep sense of foreboding.

Once again, Gilbert and Francis exchanged glances. "Well," the Prussian said delicately, "We were thinking about Feliciano."

"…Feli?" Antonio felt very tired. Why on earth would he want to date Feli, of all people? Feli was like his cute younger sibling that he'd want to buy ice cream for. There was no way Antonio could look at him romantically.

"Sure. I have a feeling he likes you, anyway," Gilbert went on. "One date can't hurt, can it?"

"Feli," Antonio repeated. "Me and Feli."

"Technically, 'Feli and I', if you want to be grammatical about it." Francis suddenly stopped, paled, and muttered, "_Mon Dieu, _Arthur is rubbing off on me."

Gilbert snorted, Antonio cracked a small smile.

"So…will you think about it?" Gilbert questioned. "Just one date?"

"_Ay…_" Antonio blinked, exhausted, at his two best friends. "_Si._"

* * *

**A/N: Want to hear a fun fact?**

**The events of this chapter were what I'd planned out for the ORIGINAL plot of the story. They're coming in during CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX! Seriously, I'm going to **_**finish **_**this story soon! xD Ah, how our fics take on their own life…*sigh***

**Anyway, thanks for reading. Please review!**


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Right. Some more major developments. One more chapter closer to the end. LET'S DO THIS THING! **

* * *

Arthur's head was basically stuck halfway inside the locker as he tried to look for an extra pencil. He was sure he had one here _somewhere. _Ugh, he should have just kept his things neatly. His locker was filled with books and papers and _Keep Calm _posters. It was a mess. He usually liked things kept tidily, but he made an exception with his locker. He didn't know why; he just got too bored to keep it straight.

"Found you," he whispered to himself as his hand curled around a small, dirty pencil with a broken nib. Arthur pulled away from the locker, slamming the door shut and—"BLOODY HELL!"

"Good morning, _mon cher_!" Francis had been standing behind the locker door, lying in wait. The damn Frog wanted to sneak up on Arthur. And it had worked! Ugh! Now, he was just gazing into his green eyes, that flirtatious smile plastered onto his lips. Dammit, Francis was unnecessarily dreamy, and it was distracting Arthur from being irritated at him.

"What do you want?" he growled, if only to hide his blush.

"You."

"Smooth."

"_Oui, _that is my speciality." Francis was smirking. "I'm smooth, and you're rough around the edges and wet behind the ears. That is why we are perfect for each other."

"That…makes no sense. At all."

Francis looked slightly put out, a small pout coming onto his lips, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. "Really?"

"Really."

"What can I say, Arthur? You have such an intoxicating effect on me, that I stumble with my words!"

"Oh my god," the Englishman muttered as he rolled his eyes. He had to applaud Francis's comeback. Only an idiot like this Bonnefoy could turn Arthur's cool retort into another flirtatious remark. Walking past Francis, Arthur commented, "Do you ever give up?"

"Give up on _l'amour_? Don't be stupid." Francis fell into step beside him. "Do _you _ever give up?"

Arthur frowned, glaring at the Frenchman. "Give up on _what, _exactly?"

"On this hard-to-get act of yours." Francis was smirking again, his eyebrows waggling in amusement. "We both know you want me, love. And we both know that I want you too. So, why are we playing games?"

Exactly how many pop songs had Francis just paraphrased?

"It's not an act, you damn Frog. You're just a narcissist."

Francis sighed dramatically. "Why Can't the English Teach Their Children How To Love?"

Arthur stopped in mid-step, turned fully and stood right in front of Francis. With a hand on the Frenchman's chest, Arthur's green eyes looked coldly into his blue ones. "Why Can't the French Teach Their Children How to Shut Up?"

Francis grinned, taking Arthur's hand in his. The Englishman pulled it away, blushing. Francis was about to open his mouth, but Arthur stopped him. "I have Political Theory, you bloody wanker."

But as Arthur was walking away, Francis called after him, "You're going to have to show your soft side sooner or later, _mon cher. _I'll be waiting!"

That damn bastard.

* * *

When Arthur walked up to Alfred, Gilbert, and Ivan later that day, he saw them sitting under the tree in the school gardens, loudly arguing about FIFA. Well Alfred and Ivan were arguing. Gilbert was just smirking about Germany's victory.

"Hey man," Gilbert said as Arthur walked up. "Francis was asking about you."

Alfred snorted. "Artie's playing hard to get."

"That's funny," Ivan said.

Wordlessly, Arthur turned on his heels and walked away.

* * *

**Mon cher, did Gil not tell you? I was looking for you. Need some help in the auditorium**

Arthur stared at his phone with a combination of elation and despair. His phone had been on silent. Francis had sent about four text messages, and had called once. Francis never did joke around with his precious drama club. But Arthur had a class to attend! He couldn't just go traipsing off—

**Everyone else has classes or is sick and we need to sort out some technical nonsense. Could use a hand. **

**A HELPING hand.**

**Though if you had something else in mind… ;)**

Oh, Francis. That wanker. He couldn't send one text message without a damn innuendo, could he? Arthur sighed, pocketing his phone. Well, it was English. He could afford to skip _one _class. He had a perfect attendance record!

* * *

"This is _their _job. Vash and Berwald, I mean," Francis sniffed, irritated, "But both of them went to some weird restaurant with Lili after school yesterday, and now all three of them have food poisoning. And everyone else—Neel, Feliks, Magnus, _Elizabeta_," he said the last name with uncharacteristic disgust, "Are all in class."

Arthur crossed his arms, looking around. The stage was a mess of electronic equipment. A rickety-looking ladder was propped against one of the walls, right under a stage light. With a start, it occurred to Arthur that their play was in a month, and he hadn't even begun rehearsing his lines yet. No wonder Francis was becoming more and stricter about having all the technological stuff in place. Feliks had told Arthur about that one year where they hadn't tested the equipment properly and the stage lights blew out halfway through the performance.

"We have class too, you know," the Englishman muttered.

"Yes, good for it," Francis replied. "_Cher, _let's carry that backstage." He motioned towards a huge speaker. Francis grinned. "How I do love working with you."

Oh no. Arthur wasn't going to tolerate this nonsense right now. "Sod off, would you? I don't need your help." Gesturing to the mess of wires and microphones and assorted technical apparatus littered on the floor, Arthur added, "You sort out this mess. I'll take the speaker inside. Wanker."

"You can't lift that on your own." Francis had a point. The speaker in question was almost half Arthur's height.

"Of course I can, you moron." The Englishman marched over to it, determined. No, he wasn't going to ask Francis for help, no way. Never. That damn Frog would just twist it into some sort of groping game. At the very least, Francis's constant flirting would make Arthur edgy. It took all of his self-control to not throw the Frenchman against the wall and kiss him senseless, anyway. He wasn't going to give Francis the satisfaction of winning this game. Not at all.

Lifting the speaker almost killed Arthur. Its weight made the Englishman bow forward and stagger, his spine and ribs taking maximum impact. Arthur's face was red with effort, his cheeks puffed and his jaw clenched. Francis, meanwhile, watched him, wordless. The Frenchman had his arms crossed over his chest, an eyebrow raised in obvious amusement.

After about ten seconds of Arthur trying to steady himself, Francis piped up. "Need help?"

"No!" With an exaggerated display of strength, Arthur took a few steps forward, doing his best to stand up straight and look nonchalant. He heard Francis sigh.

* * *

Arthur needed to give up already, Francis thought. He was starting to get rather exasperated with this situation, but there was no way he would give in. He was going to woo Arthur, he just was. His Black Sheep always made life difficult, perpetually resisting. Francis would have it a lot easier if Arthur just showed his soft side more often. Then again, half the fun was trying to coax the sweetness out of that teen. That's why they were even playing this little game.

Francis looked up at the stage lights, his stomach plummeting. He didn't like the thought of climbing ladders unattended. Should he call Arthur back…? No. There was nothing to it, really. All Francis had to do was tweak the wires a little and make sure everything was in order. It was a five-minute job. No problem at all.

So, Francis's fingers curled around the ladder and he hoisted himself on the first rung. The ladder shook just a little, but held fast. That was encouraging. Progress. He took another step. And then another. He didn't _dare _look down. Francis didn't have vertigo, but he didn't enjoy heights very much. They made him a little jittery.

Francis took one more step. He was almost at the top.

* * *

Arthur wasn't sure how he managed to get that speaker backstage, but couldn't help but admire his handiwork as he finally pushed it against a corner. He was panting, and his shoulders hurt. His palms were pink with the blood rushing to them, and he watched in keen interest as the blood slowly drained away, making his skin return to its normal colo—

"_MERDE_!"

_THUD. CRACK._

_**SLAM.**_

Arthur went cold. His body physically went cold. He stood frozen in terror for a moment, before suddenly, every sense went on overdrive. "Francis!?" he cried, jumping to action. As he tore back to the front of the stage, he shouted, "Francis, what the hell—oh my god."

Francis lay on the floor, flat on his back. His leg was at an odd angle. And there was a _ladder _on top of him. The Frenchman seemed conscious, but barely. He was biting his bottom lip in agony, and his usually perfect hair was splayed out in all directions. His cheeks were red from holding back a scream.

"Oh god," Arthur repeated, his body acting without having to think. The ladder was heavy on his already hurting shoulders, but he couldn't care less. He pushed it off Francis, careful to make sure he didn't touch the Frenchman's leg. It looked broken. Arthur bent down next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Francis hissed. A ladder had fallen right on him; he was probably hurting _everywhere. _

Francis began murmuring to himself in French, opening his blue eyes slightly. He squinted, looking right into Arthur's green ones, and his face brightened just a little. "The things I do to make you pay attention to me," he mumbled, though his voice was weak and full of pain.

"Wanker," Arthur replied instinctively, but his tone was soft. "Francis, can you sit up? I can't carry you to the nurse's office. We'll have to walk." He watched with a sinking feeling as colour drained from the Frenchman's face.

"Let me try," Francis replied, his voice trembling. Using his hands, he began pushing himself up, groaning in pain as he did. Arthur had his hands around Francis's shoulders, steadying him. "I think my leg's broken," the Frenchman said. His voice sounded choked and thick.

"Yes, I think so too." What was Arthur going to do now? Initially, he'd thought Francis could just be steadied and helped to the nurse's office, but it looked like he would have to be physically carried.

He took out his phone, hurriedly punching in a message.

**Alfred, Francis is hurt. Can you come to the auditorium, urgently? **

There was no response. Alfred was probably in class. What about Matthew? Or even Gilbert? Or even Ivan? He tried contacting them, but it was useless. He stuffed his phone back into his pocket at the sound of Francis groaning. "_Mon cher, _what do you plan on doing now?"

"Shut up, let me think!" Arthur snapped. By the looks of things, Francis was barely controlling a wail of pain. His eyes were now closed, his face scrunched, and small tears were making their way through his eyelids. This was so wrong. Francis wasn't supposed to look like this.

"Arthur, I want to lie down again," Francis said at length, his body starting to sink into Arthur's. Only then did the Englishman realise that he still hand his arms around Francis's shoulders, and was holding the Frenchman protectively.

"Wait, Francis, don't," Arthur said quickly, his grip around Francis tightening just a little as he coaxed him back into an upright position.

"Everything hurts!" and then he launched into jumbled French, speaking too quickly for Arthur to even begin to understand. Tears slipped down Francis's face. Arthur swallowed, nervous.

"Francis…Francis, dammit, shut up and listen to me!" When Francis stopped in mid-sentence, Arthur continued, "What if I carried you on my back? Can you hold on?" This was a stretch. Arthur could think of a hundred things that could go wrong with a badly injured Francis being carried piggy-back anywhere.

Francis let out a pained, but genuine, laugh. "Are you worried about me, _cher_?"

"What—are you stupid?" Arthur shouted, "What kind of question is that? Of course I'm bloody worried, you moron! Now tell me if you can handle being carried piggy-back!"

In his arms, Arthur could feel Francis's shoulders shaking slightly as the Frenchman emitted soft giggles. "I will try," he managed to say once his laughter subsided. This too, was a production. Francis had to hold himself upright with his hands, an act that was causing him a lot of obvious pain, as Arthur knelt before him with his back exposed. Francis draped his arms around Arthur's shoulders, his grip too weak to really hold on. Arthur had to clamp down firmly on his wrists.

"I'm going to stand now. Okay?"

"_Oui, oui._"

Arthur moved to stand, and Francis let out a wild shriek of pain, his hands completely loosening from their hold on Arthur's shoulders. If it weren't for the Englishman's grip on Francis, the Frenchman would have simply dropped to the floor.

This was impossible!

Francis was curled up into himself, sobbing quietly and cursing in French. Arthur swallowed, his hands resting on Francis's face, wiping away the tears even as he wept them. "Hey, hey, calm down, alright? Shh, it's okay."

First, Francis said something in French, before slowly translating it. "My leg…I can't…even the slightest movement…" he couldn't even form a coherent sentence at this point.

**ALFRED. NOW.**

"We have to get you to the nurse's office somehow!" Arthur cried, looking around wildly for a random wheelchair or even a swivel chair. There were none. "I've texted Alfred, but he isn't responding. And I just can't carry you—"

"_Mon Dieu, _don't!" Francis squeaked. "Please, it hurts too much."

"Francis…"

"Arthur…can you just _sit _with me?" Francis, for perhaps the first time in his life, was refusing to look someone in the eye while saying something emotional. He was instead biting his bottom lip, his eyelids shut, trying to quell his tears.

"You wanker…"

"Please."

"You need to get medical attention, _now._"

Francis groaned. "At least until Alfred comes, then."

Fifteen minutes later, Arthur found himself sitting cross-legged, with Francis's head on his lap. He was running his fingers through the Frenchman's blonde hair. Francis's eyes were shut, but Arthur knew he was awake. He could tell from the sharp, rapid breaths.

"Arthur…" Francis murmured, barely audible. Arthur leaned closer to hear him.

"Yes?"

"You know, _mon cher, _I won our little game." Despite everything, Francis had a small smile on his face. "You're being so nice to me right now!"

Arthur blushed furiously. "Don't get used to it."

* * *

_A Few Hours Later—After School_

* * *

"Ve…I don't know about this…" Feliciano was staring at the opposite wall, the phone pressed to his ear as he spoke in a small voice. His heart was thudding so hard he could barely hear Antonio speak on the other end. This was so wrong. This was so wrong. "Yes, but—Saturday? That's tomorrow." He swallowed. "I don't think...but…" All day today, Gilbert had been telling Feliciano about Antonio's terrible break up with Roderich. Feli knew, of course. The whole school knew. But Gilbert had been talking about how badly Antonio had taken the whole thing, and how he was testing the waters by going back to dating again, and how vulnerable he was right now. Feliciano hadn't understood why Gilbert kept talking about that, but now he knew. Now, it was crystal clear.

What about Lovi? Lovi and Toni were—but—Feli was SO sure that they liked each other! Feliciano couldn't possibly say yes to this. But then, he didn't want to cause more pain to Antonio. Gilbert had said some worrying things, and while he didn't know Toni that well, Feliciano didn't want to hurt him.

"Antonio…" Feliciano swallowed again, his next words coming like betrayal. "…Okay. I suppose we can go get some ice cream tomorrow, ve."

When Feliciano cut the phone, ten minutes later, a heavy sense of dread crept up on him. What had he just done? Antonio was Lovi's! Lovi's alone! Feliciano didn't even _want _to go out with him. Feliciano wanted Ludwig. Luddy would never see Feli that way, and Feli knew that. It broke his heart, but he knew that. Still, this date with Antonio was…_NO. _This was just not right! But he'd said yes. He couldn't back out now!

Feliciano stormed into his brother's room, tears streaming down his face. Their shift at their restaurant would begin in another hour, and Lovino was sitting at his desk, studying. When his room door flew open, he jumped, turning around sharply. He shouted, "Feli, what the fuck are you—shit, why are you crying?"

"Oh Lovi!" he sobbed, throwing himself on Lovino. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, you're never going to forgive me!"

"What the fuck?" Lovino cried, rubbing circles on Feli's back. "Why won't I forgive you? Did you pour wine on my _Godfather _DVDs or something?"

"Toni asked me out…" Feliciano wept. He cried harder as Lovino froze in his arms. "And Gilbert told me how upset he was so I couldn't say no!"

"What?" Lovino asked quietly.

"I'm so sorry! It's just one date! I'll not do anything, I don't even want to go! I'm so sorry, Lovi!"

"Antonio asked you out?" Lovino's voice was still very quiet.

"…_Si._"

"And you said yes."

"I couldn't say no! I felt so trapped! I panicked! And now I can't cancel, because it's rude! Oh Lovi, please forgive me!"

Lovino gently pushed Feliciano away. Feli had expected him to throw him against the wall and hit him, but he did not. His golden eyes were cold, his jaw set. "Please leave me alone."

"Lovi—"

"I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT, BASTARD!" And now, finally, he exploded, taking Feliciano by the wrists and throwing him out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Feli, sobbing, shaking, heard a roar of distress and rapid cussing. He heard a crash—Lovino had thrown something across the room—before everything went silent. When Feliciano pressed his ear to the door, he could hear soft crying from the other side.

* * *

"You're enjoying this a little too much," Arthur muttered. Francis was lying shirtless on his bed, his chest covered in bruises and bandages from where the ladder hit his body. His leg was covered in a plaster cast. As the sky grew steadily darker, Francis's good mood just got better. Then again, maybe that had to do with the fact that Arthur was currently sitting next to him, pressing an ice-pack to a bruise on his collarbone.

"Well, of course! The love of my life taking care of me. Ah, such bliss." Francis smirked, closing his eyes as he settled deeper into the pillows. Despite that, he frowned in pain and hissed a little, making Arthur flinch and pull away.

"Love of your life," Arthur repeated, trying to sound irritated but failing desperately. "You dramatic moron."

"_Onhonhon, _but I'm your moron, right?"

"God, will you just stop it?" Could Arthur's cheeks get any redder?

Francis laughed as he tried to sit up, but the very effort made him gasp in pain. Arthur pushed him down again. Francis frowned. "I was about to kiss you, and you just brushed me off."

"Fool! You need to lie down! You fell off a ladder and then the ladder fell on _you. _I'm surprised you didn't just pass out! Damn it, Francis, how do you manage this sort of thing? This happens all the time! Remember in third grade when you ran your bike into a tree? I mean, if you'd just told me you were going to climb a ladder on your own, I would have held it for you! Seriously, you can't do that on your own, it's dangerous!"

"Arthur." Francis was looking at him very, very seriously.

"What?"

"The game was fun, but it's over now. Kiss me." There was not a trace of humour on his face.

Arthur blinked at him, and then rolled his eyes. "The polite thing to say is, _please _kiss me. Idiot." And he leaned down and closed the distance between their lips.

* * *

**A/N: One more arc—DONE. Sorry for the late update. This chapter was giving me quite a bit of trouble, initially. Yay! The FrUK is complete! I'm so happy :D I especially loved writing that last scene. Just Spamano-goodness left. :D**

**Thanks for reading! Please review!  
**

**Oh, by the way, I'm going to shamelessly promote myself. **

_**KEEP YOUR EYES PEELED FOR **__**LENTAMENTE**__**, MY NEW SPAMANO THREE-CHAPTER DANCING!AU FIC. IT'LL BE UPLOADED WHEN THIS STORY ENDS! **_


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N:**

**To Ash (Guest): I wish you'd signed in, so we could have had this conversation via Personal Message, but you might not have an account. That's fine. Let me start by apologising. I'm sorry you felt like the fic stopped being a Spamano midway. But to be fair, the summary does list three main pairings: Spamano, PruCan and FrUK. **

**I'll admit that it started out as a Spamano. The other two were not supposed to be this prominent. They had side stories, but the side stories developed, became more concrete, and took on their own identity. It would be unfair of me, as a writer, to ignore this. In fact, I would hate myself if I didn't pay attention to all the arcs equally. Hey, my OTP is Spamano too. And those are the parts I enjoy writing the most. But not for a minute am I going to sideline the other angles just for Spamano. That's why this fic is so long in the first place. If I'd only focused on one pairing, it would be about ten chapters. Now, it's almost thirty. I know that the author's notes in the earlier chapters can be misleading, because my focus was primarily on Spamano as well. But, as I've mentioned before, the story changed halfway, and I had to edit the summary, too, in accordance with that. **

**As for GerIta. To begin with, this is not a pairing I'm fond of writing. I can't do it very well, and what's more, I don't even want to. But you're right; with a Spamano plotline like mine, Ludwig's feelings do come into account. I just don't see why it would matter at the very start, because it's only in chapter 26 that Antonio agrees to go out with Feliciano. Trust me, I've tried my best to foreshadow with GerIta. That's why Ludwig tries to 'confess' his feelings to Feli, just before Antonio agrees to go out with him. But instead of screwing up a hugely popular pairing and potentially pissing off a lot of my readers, I've decided to just let it be. I'm using GerIta like salt: add to taste, if necessary. Therefore, unlike Spamano, PruCan and FrUK, it doesn't have its own storyline. **

**Which brings me to this concept of creating side-stories. First of all, I, as a reader, don't like this idea. There are very, very, **_**very **_**few stories whose sequels I even read. I work part-time in online content writing, and I know that on the internet, people have very short attention spans. This is a fact; I don't mean to offend anyone. A reader makes a decision about a story in about thirty seconds, and more often than not, decides not to read it. Writing a full-length fic and then having sequels—or side stories—sounds tedious for me, both as a writer and a reader. And anyway, like I said, this fic **_**started out as a Spamano **_**and **_**morphed into something else entirely. **_**I didn't plan for the PruCan and FrUK to become this prominent. If I'd known this would happen, I would just have given them a separate multi-chapter fic so that those pairings could have the spotlight all for themselves. **

**The structure of this story is also rather complicated. It's easier for me now, since I've written a full-length novel with five main characters, each with their own storyline, so I have practice, but despite that, I get stuck with this fic very often. The problem is, each arc has its own separate plot, running parallel with the other two arcs. To keep these three stories running smoothly in one fic is not an easy task. All sorts of problems occur; timelines, for instance, need to be plotted out distinctly. And I can never go too deep into a single conflict, or the nature of the fic might change. Like that PruCan scene with Ivan trying to kill himself. That scene had the potential to turn into a ten-chapter fic all on its own. I could have gone into the gory details, but I had to stop myself (and ruin that scene completely), because if I'd given it the attention it deserves, the entire theme of the story would change. As it is, the PruCan arc made the fic so dramatic and depressing that I had to write an extra, impromptu chapter (chapter 25) just to make it light-hearted again. **

**What I mean to say is, each arc has been structured to fit the characters' needs. The Spamano, in terms of complexity, is the worst. They start out as lab partners, become friends, Antonio is still hurting, Lovi is protective, Lovi falls in love, Antonio stops pining after Roderich but doesn't really want to date anyone, Lovino goes batshit, ruins a locker, things spiral out of control, Antonio goes on a date with Feli, things come to a head, and there's the conclusion. There is a **_**HELL **_**of a lot going on in this arc, as opposed to the other two.**

**In PruCan, Gilbert is jealous, and Matthew is torn between Gilbert and Ivan, because he wants both and he thinks he can only have one, and so he reacts—badly—leading up to the conclusion. The FrUK is simpler still. They like each other, but Arthur is playing hard-to-get. **

**Because of the varying complexities of the three plotlines, I had to time their arcs in a very particular manner. The Spamano would have to develop first; only when they become friends, do I have the freedom to work on the other two arcs seriously. Once Lovi and Toni are friends, I can put them on the backburner while I hastily work through the PruCan and the FrUK. These arcs were smaller, and they needed to be finished sooner, so I can spend time on Spamano in peace. There **_**is **_**some Spamano in these chapters, mind you, there has to be. I have to foreshadow and foreshadow and foreshadow so I can lead up to the twist of Toni going out with Feli. That scene where Feli is comforting Toni, and Lovi sees them? That wasn't pulled out of thin air, I needed it to be there, so Lovino thinks it's possible for Antonio to have feelings for his brother. **

**Speaking from a purely mathematical point of view, the three plotlines of this story have followed a very exacting—yet very logical—structure. If I were to focus only on the Spamano, the other two arcs would never be completed—and if they were, it would have been hastily and untidily done. I would like to emphasise once again: I'm not doing side stories. I don't like side stories. **

**Look, I'm really, really, really sorry if you thought that the focus on the PruCan and the FrUK were irritating. But I needed those arcs out of the way so I could focus on Spamano properly. Since you don't even like FrUK, I'm really touched that you stuck with this fic anyway, considering that it's currently twenty-eight chapters long, and each chapter is, on average about 2500 words. Thank you for sticking with it. I do hope you enjoy the rest of this fic, which will focus on Spamano, with some GerIta, because like you said, Ludwig's feelings matter, and here's where things come to a head for these two pairings.**

**Furthermore, I've now added a note in chapter one, stating that this fic has three main ships, and is not solely a Spamano. This is to avoid any kind of confusion and disappointment later. **

**This author's note is over 1000 words long. I'm going to shut up now. **

* * *

It was like trying to force-feed himself. Antonio did not want to do this, he did _not_, and yet, he had no choice. Goddamnit, he shouldn't have listened to Gilbert and Francis. Those two were his best friends in the whole world, but even they could be wrong. Antonio stared blankly at the Vargas house. It was a sunny day, clear and warm. He was wearing a pair of jeans and his red t-shirt, completing the look with his brown leather jacket. He didn't look particularly dressed up, but he didn't look scruffy either.

Antonio swallowed slowly, pulling out his mobile phone. **Gil I can't do this. **The German did not respond, so Antonio sent a few more messages.

**I don't want to date Feli. **

**This feels weird.**

**I'm scared. **

Scared? Antonio stared at the screen, pondering that word. Scared. Frightened. Afraid. No, Antonio was none of those things. He was not nervous, either. If he'd wanted to go on a date with Feli, he would have been at least slightly jittery. No. He was _apprehensive. _Like he was stepping over a line. Every instinct of his being told him to just walk away, make up some excuse and apologise to Feliciano later. Feli didn't _really _like Antonio, did he? They barely even hung out! Feli was…such a…_child. _Antonio could never see him romantically, ever. Feli was like this cute kid brother that Antonio felt like pampering. That was all.

**Gilbert? You there?**

…**I guess not. ****I'll text you later.**

Switching his mobile phone off, Antonio gingerly walked down the footpath, his feet feeling heavy. This door was the entrance to _Lovino's _house. He could still remember that fun day when they'd studied Chemistry together. Antonio had never enjoyed studying that much. But Lovino's way of teaching—the snarky attitude, his nonstop cussing, the eye-rolls and flippant insults—made Antonio laugh. But Lovi had this way of simplifying things, breaking them down to their core, and then building it up from the foundation. That was probably how he studied, himself. Antonio had never asked, but he knew instinctively that Lovino had found ingenious ways to deal with his dyslexia, a need to prove himself making him into an academic overachiever.

Why the heck was Antonio here, again? To take _Feliciano _on a _date_? Why? Why would he even _do _such a ridiculous thing? As the minutes ticked by, Antonio began to feel more and more stupid. Not only was this whole situation _WRONG_, but it just felt…silly. Yeah, silly.

Antonio pressed the doorbell, secretly wondering if he was going out with the wrong Vargas twin.

* * *

_The characteristics of cyclic hydrocarbons are again altered if heteroatoms are present._

Lovino knew that's what the sentence said. He'd read it a hundred times before. But now, he just couldn't, he _couldn't _figure it out! There was a roar in his ears. His head hurt. He felt nauseated. Tears stained his eyes as he tried to decipher the sentence.

_The char—chart—chara—FUCK IT. Cy—cyc—lic—cylical hybrocardons—HY-BRO-CAR-DONS—no. HY-DRO—CAR—DONS—CAR—__**BONS**__. Hydrocarbons. Hydro. Carbons. _"Hydrocarbons, hydrocarbons," Lovino whispered feverishly, trying to make the pounding in his temples. But dammit, he couldn't concentrate. He couldn't think. He didn't want to. He'd tried cooking, but he almost chopped his thumb off. He would have, too, if it hadn't been for his grandfather's attentive gaze. Next, he tried watching his precious _Godfather _series, but he kept getting distracted. For perhaps the first time in his _life, _Don Corleone could not enchant him.

So, he tried studying.

But he didn't fucking need to study. He knew all of this. He could write a five-thousand word essay on this shit with his eyes closed. He was just angry. More with himself than with that stupid Spanish asshole. It was natural for people to always gravitate towards Feliciano instead. That was probably why Antonio even began talking to Lovino in the first place. To get to Feli. What an idiot Lovino had been. Antonio? Like Lovino? Who the fuck had he been kidding?

Lovino groaned. He wanted to throw his books across the room, but he just felt too tired right now. His head fell back into his pillows and he closed his eyes, trying to stop the room from spinning. His bedroom door opened. Feliciano entered.

"Lovi…"

"I am not talking to you."

"Lovi, I'm sorry. I really, really am."

"I don't care." Turning to his side, Lovino bitterly added, "Marry the bastard. See if I give a shit."

Feliciano sat down next to his brother. "I'm sorry—"

"Goddammit, Feliciano! Shut up! You're not sorry!" Lovino threw himself into a sitting position, ignoring the dizziness he felt. "Don't you dare look like you're going to cry, don't you _dare. _You don't have the right! Your life is fucking perfect. Everyone's precious little baby! The _one _person who wants to talk to me for _me, _and you somehow manage to wrap him around your little finger, too! Why do they always like you so much? Huh? And how could you say yes, Feliciano? How could you do something like that to your own brother? I don't give two shits about how sorry you are. Just GET OUT!"

Feliciano's eyes were wide in fear, tears still running down his face. He opened his mouth to apologise once again, but thought the better of it, darting out of the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

"What on earth was that about?" their grandfather asked when Feliciano entered the kitchen. "I could hear him all the way from down here."

The younger Vargas swallowed. "I did something bad."

"What? What's wrong?"

And that was when the doorbell rung.

* * *

It took about five minutes of waiting before the door opened, and Antonio blinked at Feliciano's pale face. He'd been crying. That was clear from his red-rimmed eyes. Giving Antonio a forced smile, Feliciano said, "Hi."

"Hi."

This was awkward. Awkward, awkward, awkward.

After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, Antonio ventured, "So, shall we go?"

"…Yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay."

* * *

When Gilbert entered the kitchen, Ludwig was reading. He held his book stiffly, his eyes frozen on one particular page without moving. He'd been like this since the day before, since he went out to eat with Feliciano. They must have had a fight. They rarely ever fought, though, even if Ludwig got annoyed with Feli. They were best friends, as ridiculous as that sounded. Like Francis and Antonio were his best friends. (Gilbert would never admit this, but he was happy that his stoic, taciturn younger brother had _amis, _as Francis would say. Ludwig always seemed so unfriendly, uptight. Even though Gilbert knew the little brat was a complete softie.)

"_Bruder, _your phone was buzzing quite a bit."

"What?" And Gilbert glanced to where Ludwig was pointing. His mobile phone was hiding behind the flower vase on the table. "Oh, that's where it was! I thought I lost it." He picked up the mobile and opened a chat window. Gilbert read Antonio's messages and smiled in slight amusement. "Toni can be so funny, I swear."

Ludwig glanced up questioningly.

"He's nervous. He's taking Feliciano out on a date today, and—"

"He's what?" The book fell out of Ludwig's hands. His eyes were wide in surprise and panic as he repeated, "He's _what_?"

Gilbert felt his stomach flip uncomfortably under his brother's blue-eyed stare. "He's…taking Feli out to get ice cream…Why…?" and then it hit him. It hit Gilbert like a pile of rocks falling from the sky and aiming straight for his head. He could not _believe _he'd missed something like this. Ludwig's stricken expression right now. Ludwig constantly hanging out with Feli. "_Mein Gott,_ do you have feelings for Feliciano?" Wait a minute...weren't they just _friends_? How could Gilbert have no _clue_ about his brother's love life? Shit. Holy shit.

His younger brother stood abruptly. "_Antonio _has feelings for Feliciano? How? They never even hang out with each other!"

"No, no, no, no…" Gilbert dropped his head in his hands. "_Verdammt, _Ludwig, why didn't you _tell _me?"

"Tell you what!?" Ludwig was looking angrier and angrier, his arms crossed over his chest in an act of defensiveness.

"That you like Feli! You think I'd have set them up if I knew you had feelings for him!?"

"YOU set them up?"

"I DIDN'T KNOW YOU LIKED HIM!" Gilbert ran a hand through his hair, his fingers almost clawing his skull. Maybe it was time he sat down and actually had a long heart-to-heart with Ludwig. For the first time in forever, it occurred to the albino that he had no idea what kept going on in his brother's life. "Oh _mein Gott, _this is a mess." When his eyes met Ludwig's, he noticed how the blonde's face had actually fallen.

"…It's not like he returns my feelings, anyway. I heard him tell Lovino as much, a while ago. I remember he said that we'd never be more than friends. I tried to tell him how I felt the other evening, but I just got so flustered and embarrassed!" He was blushing violently, but still looked utterly miserable. His eyes were downcast in an uncharacteristic expression of surrender. "I guess it doesn't matter who he goes out with. I mean, if he likes Anto—"

"No. Stop talking like a little bitch." Gilbert was stabbing a message into his phone. "Tsk, I think Toni's switched his phone off, he does that when he's out on dates. Fine. I know where they're going. Come on."

"What?!"

"_Come. On._ I'm not going to let my little brother's Italian boytoy go off with my best friend. Get your ass moving." With that, Gilbert clamped a hand on Ludwig's wrist, pulling him towards the door.

* * *

The ice cream parlour was called _Mickey's _and was flocked with families out to enjoy the nice weather. There were open-air tables, and Feliciano picked one. Antonio went to get the ice cream, and when he returned, they sat in even more awkward silence. Antonio was eating his chocolate ice cream very quickly, just looking for something to do. Feliciano hadn't even touched his strawberry flavoured one. It was melting from its cone and making his fingers sticky.

"So…" Antonio began, searching desperately for something to say.

Feliciano swallowed. "Ve…"

"Uh…how's…how's school?"

"…Fine."

"That's nice."

This kind of thing would never have happened with Lovino, ever. Antonio never felt so constricted with him. He could just babble on about anything and everything, with Lovino slipping in snide comments and interesting cuss words. Asshat, fucktard. Honestly, what did these words even mean? Where did they come from? It was worth asking Lovino one day. He was sure to know. He could probably write a thesis on bad language.

"How's Lovino?" Antonio finally asked. Something was pulling at him. He missed Lovino terribly.

Feliciano's eyes sharpened just a little, his head inclining slightly towards Antonio. "Lovi is…fine. Why?"

How rude was it to talk to one's date about their sibling? But Antonio didn't care. He just had to know. "He hasn't spoken to me since yesterday evening."

Feliciano's face fell. "He's been pretty…um, upset, about this thing, Toni. I won't lie to you. You hurt him pretty badly."

"What?" Antonio sat up straighter, ice cream cone almost falling out of his hands. "What did I do? What did he say? Whatever it is, I didn't—" and then his eyes went wide as it dawned on him. "Oh god, you don't mean…"

Feliciano nodded, solemn. "When you asked me out, I panicked. Gilbert was telling me about how miserable you'd been, and I didn't want to hurt your feelings, so I said yes. But the truth is, Lovi is the one you should be asking out. He's the one head-over-heels for you."

Antonio felt colour drain from his surroundings. All he could see now were Feliciano's amber eyes, identical to Lovino's, but somehow not like Lovino's at all. "This date," Antonio said quietly.

"Yeah. Sorry, Toni, I know I'm being really mean right now. But the truth is—" and then Feliciano's phone burst to life. It was a German song he couldn't pronounce the name of, but he'd set that ringtone specifically for Ludwig. "Oh, hold on, let me get that." Answering his phone, he said, "Hello?"

"_I have to tell you something. Don't talk, just listen."_

"Ludwig? You sound really upset!"

"_Just tell him, Luddy."_

"_Shut up, Gilbert." _Feliciano could hear Ludwig clear his throat. _"I'm one minute away from Mickey's. I want to see you."_

Feliciano frowned, glancing around to find the German. Gilbert was here too, right? Antonio was looking at Feli with a slightly confused expression.

"Ve…Luddy, I'm a little busy right now." Feli hated himself for saying those words.

"…_No. Just…just listen to me. Please. It's important."_

"…Okay." Whatever it was, it sounded grave. Feliciano hoped Ludwig wasn't in any kind of trouble. He wasn't usually this…short. Well, okay, he was, but Feliciano knew when he was just being his usual curt self. Right now, Ludwig seemed very serious. Feli watched as Antonio began copying his movements, darting his eyes through the crowd to see what Feli was looking for.

"Huh? Is that Gilbert? And…Ludwig…?" Antonio frowned, but Feli jerked his head towards where the Spaniard was looking. The crowd parted slightly, and suddenly, the two Germans were rushing to their table.

Feliciano cut the call as Ludwig and Gilbert approached. They seemed out of breath, Gilbert even more so. He was bent over, his hands on his knees as he panted. "Luddy…wanted…Feli…talk…Tonio…" he rasped, and Antonio shot out of his seat, offering it to the albino. The Ger—Prussian—accepted it gratefully. Antonio took another chair from a nearby empty table and sat down. Ludwig, however, was standing. So was Feliciano.

"What's going on?" Antonio asked to no-one in particular.

"Long story short," Gilbert muttered at length, "Francis and I are not as awesome as we thought we were."

Antonio widened his eyes. Gilbert would not usually say something like that.

"Luddy? Luddy, what's wrong?"

"You can't date Antonio," the blonde said, and Antonio blinked in confusion.

"Ve?"

"Because if you did," Ludwig began, his cheeks darkening, "Then what would I do?" Feliciano's frown deepened, and Ludwig groaned, burying his head in his hands. This would have been a lot easier without his older brother and his older brother's best friend sitting right there, gaping at them in a combination of amusement (Gilbert) and confusion (Antonio).

"What are you talking about, Luddy?"

"_Verdammt, _Feli!" Ludwig suddenly blurted. "_Ich liebe dich!_"

The silence that followed was punctuated only by a soft gasp from Antonio, and the general buzz of their surroundings. Somewhere in the distance, a baby cried, a car honked, a little girl laughed, some pigeons cooed. Here, at this table, there was nothing but silence.

And then—

"Oh, Luddy!" Feliciano threw himself onto the German, shouting, "_Ti amo! Ti amo, Luddy! Ti amo!_"

The sudden hug turned into a kiss as Feliciano pressed his lips against Ludwig's. Gilbert sighed in relief as he sat back against his chair. Antonio just gaped in open shock at the scene before him. "Not how a date is supposed to go, huh, Toni?" Gilbert muttered as they watched the new couple in front of them. "Sorry about this. But I can't let you go out with someone my brother has feelings for." Gilbert gave him an apologetic smile.

"No, it's fine." Antonio felt something inside himself flutter. He'd been feeling so chained down, so fettered to this situation. But now, he was free. The Spaniard stood, his hands shaking a little in excitement. He grinned at Gilbert. "It's just great. Give Ludwig and Feli my best!"

"Wait, where are you going?"

But Antonio tore into the crowd, running to Lovino Vargas with break-neck speed.

* * *

**A/N: If my calculations are correct, there is only one more chapter left! Whoo! :D **

**Alright, time for more shameless self-promotion. **

_**KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR LENTAMENTE,**_** _MY NEW THREE-CHAPTER SPAMANO DANCE!AU FIC, WHICH WILL BE POSTED AFTER THIS FIC ENDS!_**

**xD**

**Thanks for reading. Please review. **


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Whoa. The last chapter. I can't believe it. I really, really can't. Also, sorry for the late update. College swamped me with work.**

* * *

Lovino was on his laptop, idly flipping through one 9gag image after another. Not that these stupid pictures ever made him laugh, but right now, he was feeling even worse. What were Feli and Antonio up to? Ice cream. That's what Feli had said. He'd also promised that he wouldn't do anything with Antonio, but Lovino didn't care. He tried not to picture them kissing or making out in some corner of the street.

This was so unfair, dammit! Feliciano had it so fucking easy!

Lovino groaned, pushing himself off the chair he was sitting on and throwing himself on his bed. Maybe if he just went to sleep, he could pretend like none of this even happened. He'd wake up, and Antonio would still be his friend, and Feliciano would be nowhere near the asshole.

And then his phone started ringing. He lifted his head slowly, reaching up to take it. Not many people called him. Who could it be?

He read the screen. **Incoming Call From Tomato (Sparkly) Bastard. **The Italian stared at the words for a good thirty seconds. And then he almost answered it. No, no way. He cut the call, dropping the phone to the floor. Wouldn't it be nice if his cell just cracked and broke and turned into dust, leaving him perfectly isolated in his bedroom for the rest of his life?

No such luck. Antonio called about three times before beginning to text. Lovino listened to his default tone going _beep beep beep _every one minute. Lovino counted. Antonio must have sent over ten messages. He groaned, pushing his head under the duvet, trying to drown out the noise.

And that was when the doorbell rang.

* * *

"No! No, don't answer the do—" but it was too late. His grandfather had opened the door, and Antonio was standing behind it. He looked out of breath, bent over, clutching his knees for support.

"Lo-vi," he rasped.

_Nonno _looked from Antonio to Lovino, his eyes expectant, waiting for an order on how to proceed. Lovino stormed up to the door. "Fuck off."

"No, wait—"

"GET LOST OR I'M GOING TO HIT YOU!" Lovino screamed. But he couldn't actually hit Antonio. Instead, he just slammed the door in the moron's face. Turning around, he glared at his grandfather, "Don't let him in."

"I won't. Feli told me what happened."

As soon as Lovino shut his room door again, he groaned, dropping his head in his hands. _Dio, _he was so confused. So conflicted! There was Antonio, downstairs, outside his house, calling his name. Why? Where the fuck was Feli? What was going on? What should he even do?

He was furious. With Antonio, with Feli, with himself. From outside his window, he could hear that dumb bastard saying, "Loviiii! Loviii, I need to talk to you!" His phone was beeping and ringing without even a pause. Dammit! Dammit to hell!

Twenty minutes later, Lovino dared to peek outside his window. Antonio's yelling had stopped. Had he left? No. He was sitting on the footpath across the street, staring up at Lovino's window. His face brightened when he saw Lovino, and fell when the Italian drew the curtains.

* * *

Afternoon melted into evening, and Antonio hadn't eaten a thing since breakfast. But he didn't care. He just kept texting and calling Lovino, hoping and hoping that his Tomatito would respond! No such luck. Even his curtains were drawn. Antonio stared up into the darkening sky, wondering. There had to be something he could do…

The Spaniard gasped as he remembered. Jumping to his feet, he sent Lovino a few more texts message before running back to his home.

* * *

"Lovi, do you know where Feli is?" _Nonno _entered the room quietly, sitting at the edge of the bed, watching his grandson sketch on a scrap of paper. He kept drawing animated tomatoes. Lovino glanced up tiredly, nodding.

"He called me to say he's out with his precious German boyfriend and he'll be back late."

"Er…what?"

"I don't know. German boyfriend. He used those words. Whatever, not like I give a shit anymore." Groaning, Lovino dropped his head into the pillows. "Call him if you're so fucking worried."

"Actually, I came to ask you something else," Lovino watched as his grandfather cleared his throat, adding, "It's been hours. Antonio's still outside, last I checked. Poor kid must be starving."

"Let him starve."

"Lovi…"

"No."

"At least hear him out."

"No." The Italian jumped to his feet now, going to the window and pulling the curtains back. He lowered his eyes. "Bastard. He's not outside."

"What?" his grandfather went to the window. Antonio was nowhere to be seen.

_Not like I'm surprised. Asshole's probably got better things to do. _Lovino sighed, closing his eyes to bring his emotions under control.

* * *

**Lovino**

**I'm so sorry**

**Gil and Francis put me up to it! **

**Argh I shouldn't have listened to them**

**Loooovi. Sorry sorry sorry mi amor!**

**Okay look. For ages now I've been really miserable cause of Roderich and stuff but then I met you! And you were so funny and cute and I loved hanging out with you! Even though you swear a lot and call me weird names like tomato bastard lol. I love those names and I love that about you but dammit lovi, I had no idea that I actually had feelings for you! **

**Wait that makes no sense**

**Okay, lemme try that again. **

**I was too focused on Roderich to realise what I had in front of me.**

**Haha that sounds like such a cliche**

**LO SIENTO LOVI TE AMO **

**I don't have any feelings for Feli and he doesn't like me either, which is good**

**Speaking of which he and Ludwig basically made out with each other during our 'date' lol. I'm happy for them**

**Lovi :( Reply already**

**Please?**

**Lo siento I'm an idiot you know I am**

**I want to ask you out. Properly. Face to face. **

**Loooooovi :( **

**Wait. I have a muy bueno idea **

**You might hit me though…**

**It's worth it**

**I'll be back in no time! **

**Te amo Lovi!**

Lovino stared at the torrent of messages on his phone. Apart from that, Antonio had called him about nine times. Te amo. Did that mean what he thought it meant? No fucking way. It was just not true. That bastard was lying to—

And then he heard a very familiar rhythm seeping into his room. It was muddled and faint from behind the glass window and curtains, but he could recognise that guitar music anywhere. His golden eyes widened in a combination of rage and disbelief as he marched towards the window and threw it open.

Antonio stood downstairs, guitar in hand. When he saw Lovino, he grinned. "Looovi!" he shouted. "I know you're going to be mad at me for this but it was the only way to get your attention! _Lo siento! Te amo!_"

The tarantella tune.

Antonio was playing the tarantella tune.

That unbelievable bastard.

* * *

Antonio's heart was beating wildly as he saw Lovino from the window. It was impossible to tell in the darkness, but was his Tomatito blushing? How cute! Sure, Lovi was going to murder him for learning how to play this tune, but Antonio didn't care. He knew Lovi loved it, and he was going to take his chances.

He stared at Lovino. The Italian had stiffened, his eyes resting on Antonio without even blinking. And then he shouted, "YOU BASTARD!" he shouted something in Italian that Antonio did not catch, and roared, "I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU! ASSHOLE!" and he bolted from the window and disappeared.

Argh! Lovino could be so difficult! But Antonio didn't stop playing. He tried to focus entirely on the rhythm of the song, because if he got distracted, he was going to panic. He hated not talking to Lovi, he hated fighting with him. God, he was such an idiot. If only he'd realised sooner! Of course he had feelings for Lovino. How could he not have known? If he'd only realised sooner, things would never have become this bad.

The front door opened, and Lovino stomped outside, fists balled and dropped to his sides, eyes blazing with fury. Antonio's fingers on the guitar faltered, and abruptly, the music stopped. Lovino marched up to him. "You," he growled.

"Lovi…"

"No, shut up! I don't want to hear anything you have to say! You can go ahead and marry my stupid _fratello, _see if I care! I'll fucking write your fucking wedding speech, too! It's not like you'll even fucking notice how your stupid green eyes and stupid smile and stupid Spanish accent make me feel a hundred times stupider than I already am! It's not even like you give two shits about that, so what does it even ma—"

Lovino couldn't say another word, because Antonio had kissed him. It was the tensest kiss Antonio had ever had. It was a gamble. If he pulled away, would Lovino just explode? Was he going to lose? Antonio tried to infuse it with all the emotion he truly felt, but he couldn't. All he could see was that Lovino's golden eyes were wide open in shock, and his lips were numb and unmoving.

_Shit._

Antonio pulled away, ready for the explosion.

Lovino gaped at him, mouth half-open, trying and failing to find the right words. Antonio laughed sheepishly. "Um…sorry…"

"What…what the fuck was that?" Lovi finally managed.

"It's um…_te amo,_" Antonio responded, scratching the back of his head nervously. "And I'm sorry for going out with Feli, I really am. I didn't want to, but my idiot friends convinced me, and all the time, I was thinking about you, Lovi. And I know I sound really stupidly cliché right now but I'm telling you the truth. You've been so kind to me when I was upset over stupid things and I didn't realise how much I've come to need you in my life and god I sound so stupid right now I'm sorry for hurting your feelings please please please please forgive me te amo Lovi!" by the end of the speech, he'd forgotten to use punctuation, too. He was blushing so violently that it would have put any self-respecting tomato to shame.

Lovino gaped at him some more. "You're an asshole."

Antonio flinched at the words.

"When did you learn that tarantella tune? And why?"

"…A couple of days ago? I learnt it because I…I don't know why, to be honest. I guess I just wanted to see you dance to it someday. Whenever you're ready."

"Do you even know why it's so fucking personal to me, Antonio?"

"No…"

"Because it's how I express myself. Because I can't draw and paint and cook and shit like Feli can. And I never used to have anyone to talk to. So the dancing…that was my only goddamn outlet."

"Oh."

"And I can't dance for you. Not yet, anyway." Lovino took a shaky breath. "I'm not used to having people listen to me."

"Sorry…"

"You're an asshole," Lovino muttered again. But he took a step closer to Antonio. "Don't you dare go out with Feliciano again. Don't you _dare._"

"I won't, I promise! _Lo siento! Lo_—"

But this time, it was Lovino who kissed Antonio.

* * *

**A/N:**

**IT'S OVER. HOLY CRAP. Yeah, I thought of writing a concluding paragraph, but then I decided to end it at this sweet scene. Twenty-nine chapters! Wow!**

**To everyone who reviewed, followed, favourited, or even lurked. Thank you SO much for your interest in this fic. Even if you didn't like some of the ships, thank you for sticking with it. It's because of you guys and your enthusiasm that I was able to keep going, even when there were times I just didn't want to write. Thank you! I love you all! :) **

**I would also want to let you know that the first chapter of **_**LENTAMENTE **_**has been **_**PUBLISHED. **_**It's a Spamano fic, and it's about dance, so if you're interested, please do check it out! You can find the story from my profile :) I would be so honoured if you read it. **

**Once more, thank you so much for your support. You guys are awesome. **

**Bye! :) **


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